Mark Darcy's Diary: The Edge of Reason
by trixie30111
Summary: When Mark Darcy ran out that night to buy Bridget a diary, she returned the favour Mark Darcy POV Somewhere between the film and the book universe
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Bridget Jones' diary

Name: Mark Darcy

Age:…..Why am I even doing this?

When Bridget bought me this diary for Christmas maybe she thought of it as a little joke. To remind me of that night just before Christmas when I left her flat to go and buy her a new diary. Even now, thinking of the way she ran after me in just a cardigan and a pair of highly ridiculous knickers makes me break into the most juvenile grin. Jeremy has caught me on more than one occasion and sighed or rolled his eyes or elbowed me, guffawing "Still mooning over Bridget are you?"

Or maybe she thinks that writing a diary will help me get "that stick out my arse" as she has so charmingly put it in the past. It certainly seems to work for her – she is always so free with her emotions – like an open book for anyone to read. Unlike me, who seems to turn into a gibbering wreck, or worse, a pompous arse at the merest hint of emotion. It is true that I have not tried to write down anything personal for over twenty years, since the heartfelt and impassioned letters I used to write to my mother by torchlight under the covers during my first term at Eton. Pages and pages of begging to come and fetch me home again. Letters in which I poured out my child's heart and then promptly threw away. I couldn't bear to hurt her by sending them. And besides, after a few weeks I had been picked for the cricket team and all that nonsense was forgotten. Nevertheless, Bridget has given me this diary and I intend to keep it

However, knowing myself as I do, I can promise nothing more than that this will be a faithful record of the year's events. If this year turns out as I hope it will, and indeed, as it has begun, it may be pleasant to look back on it in future years.

Also, it will amuse Bridget that we will be able to sit side by side in bed, writing our diaries together. She will be scribbling furiously, pausing now and again to suck on the end of her pen, gazing off into space as she searches for the right word. I don't know if she is aware of quite how much she mumbles to herself as she is writing, her voice occasionally raising to a low shout as she recalls something that has made her angry during the day's events, usually that drug addled boss of hers, Richard Finch, or maybe even me. She won't let me read a word she has written since the time I so unforgivably intruded upon her private thoughts when reading her diary before, so I wouldn't know. Anyway, I will sit next to her, ponderously planning the next word before neatly writing it down, ever the same old buttoned up Darcy, even in these secret writings.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer - I do not own Bridget Jones' diary

1st January

Today was Pamela Jones's turkey curry buffet. When I think back to last year I shudder with horror at the almighty prat I made out of myself and indeed, how generally awful the whole event was. It is quite amazing to think of how things seem altered to me now I am not swathed in the blanket of self pity and malt whisky that normally accompanies me through the festive season. What was then a coven of gossiping cackling matchmakers now is clear to me to be just a group of close family friends, intent on seeing me happy again and determined to make me realise, despite myself, that there really were more fish in the sea. What was once a woman-repelling jumper is now just a slightly misguided gift from a loving mother trying to bring a smile to the face of her taciturn and obviously unhappy son.

Most of all, what seemed like a desperate spinster who 'drinks like a fish, smokes like a chimney and dresses like her mother' (an opinion which I have regretted highly since the moment the hypocritical and judgemental words departed my lips), I see a beautiful, witty, independent, strong willed woman, who admittedly does drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney, despite her pretences to the contrary. I behaved unforgivably towards Bridget last year; something which took me many months to set right; and I am determined to spend this year entirely differently.

Unfortunately, what seemed last year to be the most vile and outdated catering this side of the 1970's was, in the cold light of day, just that. I approached the groaning wallpaper table that I knew Colin had dragged from the garage just this morning, brushed off the cobwebs and set out for Pamela to adorn with the finest collection of doilies in all of Grafton Underwood. It looked almost a perfect replica of the resplendent feast that had faced me just 365 short days ago. I wondered idly if Pamela had some kind of template she worked from or if she had photographed the previous years' buffet as an ideal of culinary perfection and sought to replicate it ad infinitum. The table was piled high with vol– au–vonts, beetroot cubes, cheese and pineapple sticks, all manner of Lilliputian pickled vegetables, not to mention the esteemed turkey curry. I picked up a plate and gingerly spooned some of the alleged curry onto my plate. There were what appeared to be tinned peas and sweetcorn swimming in the suspiciously orange sauce that accompanied the turkey. What I had fervently hoped was an accident last year did rather seem to be the recipe. This was evidently where Bridget had garnered her cookery skills from. I struggled to contain a smile at the thought of the blue soup she had concocted last year.

Just as I raised my fork to my mouth I felt a sharp tap to my left shoulder, then as I turned to see who it was, another fell on my right. Geoffrey Alconbury; a man who I absolutely refuse to call my uncle on the grounds that he is a) unrelated to me and b) by all accounts, the most horrendous pervert; jumped up from behind me. I ground my teeth, frustrated in the knowledge that, even though that was approximately the 97th time he had done that, it was the 97th time I had fallen for it. Gullible Mark again, I chided myself internally.

"What-ho Mark! Not brought my lovely little Bridget with you I see?"

"Oh sorry no, um, Geoffrey. I'm afraid she's been waylaid. Terrible trouble at work – she simply had to go into the office this morning but I thought it best that I came up early to spend some time with my parents. My car is driving her here"

'All on its own' I thought to myself, amusedly remembering Bridget's confusion last year.

Whilst dishonesty doesn't come naturally to me, I must admit to telling a falsehood as far as Bridget's current whereabouts were concerned. After a particularly raucous New Year's eve celebration at Tom's flat last night (which involved, for some reason, Bridget Jude and Sharon climbing up onto Tom's dining table and singing 'Hey Big Spender' at high volume, only to be cut short by Bridget banging her head on the ceiling lamp and Jude laughing so hard she fell off the table and down the back of the sofa) Bridget was feeling somewhat worse for wear this morning and had begged me, in between bouts of vomiting, to leave her to die on the bathroom floor. Whilst this was obviously out of the question, I had to go back to my own house for a change of clothes and so had left Bridget to it, with the promise that I would send a car, and driver of course, to pick her up in a few hours and bring her here, stopping only at Coins Café for emergency coffee and chocolate croissant rations. It had surprised me that even after seeing her at her worst this morning, the immediacy with which I had wanted to be back with her, after leaving her flat and heading to my dreary house. Just as I was wondering how soon it was reasonable to be worried about her, I saw her enter the room.

Geoffrey left my side as quickly as he had arrived, only to pop up behind Bridget, squeezing her bottom in a very non uncle-like manner, accompanying it with a resounding "Parp Parp". Although her face reddened in annoyance, I knew she was so grateful to be avoiding the usual rounds of 'not got yourself a nice boyfriend yet Bridget?' that she was considerably more tolerant than she might have been. I concurred wholeheartedly.

Bridget approached me, a smile twinkling in her eyes as she removed her black overcoat. I glanced down, momentarily to her chest and my heart filled with such gratitude and relief that I could very well have taken her into my arms and kissed her there on the spot. However, as I think it would've sent Pamela into such paroxysms of delight she may well have fallen into the turkey curry I hardly thought it was appropriate.

I gave Bridget the merest of nods, although I felt my face softening as I did so, into one of the faces that Jeremy so hilariously refers to as mooning. As I did so, I noticed that she too was appraising me. She too, seemed to like what she saw, or at least to find it amusing.

"Nice jumper" she quipped, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

"My mother's taste never falters" I replied, finally leaning in and giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. We were both now laughing about the fact that we were both wearing identical jumpers, of the most hideous kind. Quite where my mother procured these items from, I knew not, but I briefly pitied all the other middle aged sons around Britain whose own mothers frequented the same shop. However, the fact that Bridget had worn the aforementioned monstrosity, presumably out of consideration for my mother's feelings meant a lot to me.

Pamela bustled over to us, the scalloped edges of her apron practically quivering with glee.

"Ah Bridget there you are, at last! It's so nice to see you dressing a bit more cheerfully. Honestly dear the amount of times you've turned up here looking like something out of a concentration camp. And Mark, you look very handsome too, in another of Elaine's splendid jumpers." I smiled at her, nodding, glad that my years of legal training had at least taught me how to keep my face impartial at times like these. "Happy New Year to the two of you anyway," she eyed me beadily, the glint of expectation in her eye "I shouldn't think it will be too long before we find cause to celebrate again before long, eh Mark?" Bridget rolled her eyes and hissed at her mother to stop before I, the voice of diplomacy replied

"And Happy New Year to you too Mrs Jones. Thank you so much for my Christmas present – so very thoughtful of you. I certainly don't know how I have gone through my life thus far, without a set of, um, sock suspenders."

Bridget sniggered at my side, trying unsuccessfully to make it sound as thought she were choking on a mini quiche. Barely able to keep the tremor of mirth from my voice, I made my excuses to Pamela that I had better find where my father and Mr Jones had sneaked off to. Bridget followed me out onto the patio where we laughed long and hard into the crisp Winter air.

Later on, as I drove back to London, with Bridget sleeping off the last of her hangover in the passenger seat I realised that even the long and tedious journey to Grafton Underwood and back was made better, simply by her being with me.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for all your kind reviews and suggestions. It means a lot**

**Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter, I am currently in the middle of exams and also found this one a bit of a struggle. The next chapter is nearly complete and much more plot driven so should hopefully be a bit better**

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Had a really stressful day at work today, with one brief interlude. The Mexican case is coming to a close and we are on to sorting out all the pedantic, niggling things. The sort of thing that usually suits me down to the ground. A year ago, the sort of workload that resulted in me being able to bury my head in a huge pile of paperwork at my desk, scribbling furiously, files built up like wall around me, barely even able to look up to thank the bearers of cups of coffee or talk to my colleagues would be the sort of day I would look forward to.

Looking up is a mistake; I learned that quite soon after my so-called wife left me. She ran off with Daniel – Bastarding – Cleaver, who proceeded to parade her around in front of our mutual friends just long enough for word to spread to absolutely everyone we knew, that he had stolen my wife. After which, of course, he unceremoniously dumped her, by fax I believe. I would stay late at work, unwilling to return to the cold empty house that echoed with the sounds of a thousand accusations. My ex wife, though diminutive in stature, certainly made up for it in volume, ferocity and shrillness – when we had first met, I had thought of her as driven, I admired her for her ruthlessness in court. However, in the months of our break up the scales fell from my eyes and what I had seen as determination was revealed as aggression, ruthlessness was replaced by cruelty. I had sat on the slippery leather sofa that she had insisted we buy, the sofa that I had never liked, with my head in my hands as she rained down insults upon me so relentlessly that they began to feel like physical blows. She blamed me, of course, for Daniel dumping her, for the failure of our marriage, for my failure as a man and husband. So at work I would remain, long after the cleaners had been round the office and the lights in the adjacent offices were dimmed. As my colleagues left for the evening, many would put their heads into my office, asking me if I wanted to 'go for a drink or something'. As I said, looking up is a mistake – I waved them off unceremoniously whilst never taking my eyes from the page in front of me, with mumbled excuses about maybe next week.

A few days after she had left me, Jeremy had stepped into my office and closed the door behind him. His concerned tone made my head snap up to see what he wanted

"How are you doing Mark?" he asked. I had not told anyone at work about my marital problems, so I assumed from this, he must have heard the latest gossip from one of our friends. I was about to shrug off the concerned platitudes that were going to come my way but as his eyes caught mine, his thick with pity, I must admit (to my great shame) that all that came out of my mouth was a sob. Believe me, crying at my desk, with one of my closest colleagues looking on was not my finest hour, nor one that I planned on repeating, so I kept eyes firmly down as often as seemed professionally appropriate. That is until recently, when it actually started to become enjoyable to engage in conversation with the people I spent a large part of my time with. I pretended not to see their surprised faces when I came back to the office after Christmas an entirely more cheerful one than had departed the office a week previously.

However, the afternoon was not taken up with paperwork but a meeting involving some of the key players in the case, to go over things a final time before the case went to court. As I sat looking at the faces around the large mahogany table, the slight buzz of a migraine behind my eyes I reminded myself that I shouldn't drink at lunch times. Especially when I was as tired as I am now. I stayed round Bridget's again last night. We took a bottle of wine to bed and talked and laughed until the sky was starting to lighten and I could hear the cheeping of birds that heralded the start of another day. Bridget eventually fell asleep, her head on my shoulder, her hair spilling down onto my chest. I lay back, with a smile on my face and drifted off into a natural sleep, without even a sleeping pill or glass of whisky to help me along. I tried to convince myself it was the tiredness, not thinking about Bridget that made me keep losing track of the conversation.

Lunch had been an informal affair, and Adrian Pemberton, the Undersecretary for Trade and lndustry had brought his wife with him. As it turned out, his wife was an old acquaintance of mine, or should I say, of Daniel Cleaver's, from Cambridge. Whilst I was far too much of a gentleman to mention the fact that I recall seeing her, on several occasions, sneaking out of Daniel's room in the early hours of them morning, she did not see fit to afford the same courtesy to me and instead regaled the entire party with stories of my misfortunes in love. Fired by the best part of a bottle of red wine she took great delight in filling the head of Amnesty in on exactly how I had managed to repel every one of her friends by preferring to stay in studying than going out and taking all manner of illegal substances as her and Daniel's circle had seemed to enjoy so much. I realised I had drifted out of the conversation again when I heard her say

"…and since they got a divorce, he hasn't had a girlfriend at all!"

I felt my ears burning at the words of this woman, who I had barely seen in the last ten years. I supposed she must still be friendly with Daniel, who I am sure, would enjoy nothing more than a good old laugh at my expense whilst filling her in on the latest instalment of the disaster that is my life. Instead of delivering the witty come back to her rude statement, as I am sure Bridget would have been able to, I simply retorted, like a sulky schoolboy,

"Well, if you must know, I am seeing somebody actually,"

Of course, the conversation was on nothing else for the rest of the meal. Jonathan from Amnesty and Adrian seemed to find it hilarious that I could be reduced to such childishness, as well as more surprised than they should be that I had a girlfriend. I sat back and managed to take their jokes in fairly good humour. I had been working closely with them on this case for several years now and considered them to be friends as well as clients. The good-natured ribbing was just dying down when the elderly, and usually taciturn, Mexican Ambassador, Filipe piped up,

"Mark's got a girlfriend? A real one? Impossible - he never leaves the office!"

At this the rest of the table roared with laughter and I began trying to catch the eye of the waitress to bring the bill.

Obviously, once we were all back at the office and had to commence our meeting, the banter had to stop, but I couldn't help feeling needled by their comments. Which is why, when my phone rang, and Bridget's number flashed up on the screen, something very childish in me made me press the speakerphone button. She had taken to phoning me in the afternoons to ask if was going to be joining her that evening, and I thought this conversation, would stave off any future questioning about the reality of my girlfriend from the people assembled round the table with me. Of course had I an inkling of what was to come I would never have done such a thing.

"Hello?" I asked, trying to maintain a professional tone to my voice.

"It's me. Just wondered how you are." Bridget's voice suddenly sounded rather louder than I had expected and I glanced up apologetically at the people assembled around me. However, I still left the phone on loudspeaker.

"I'm fine, thanks. Everything all right with you?"

"Fine, though, er,... l've just had a rather graphic

shag flashback. And you do have a genuinely gorgeous bottom."

I felt a flush shoot up my face as the reality that these people sitting around me were in fact very important clients and that this was an extraordinarily bad idea, crashed down upon me. For a moment I wondered whether I couldn't just hang up on her, but my sense of decency prevailed and, scarcely able to meet the eyes of those sitting around me I replied

"Thank you. I'm with the Mexican ambassador, the head of Amnesty International, and the Undersecretary for Trade and Industry. And you're on speakerphone."

Luckily she hung up before Filipe let out an uncharacteristic snort of laughter, which, in turn, set everyone else off. It had been about ten minutes before we were able to recommence with the meeting.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Thanks again for your reviews they are really kind and certainly motivate me to keep writing**

**S Faith – thank you for your help with grammar and spelling – I am planning on going back and correcting all those errors so please mention any more you notice and I will change them all in time. Also you give me too much credit thinking that I was making reference to the first Bridget Jones film.**

**Anyway, here we go. It's slightly different to in the film (and book) but this way just made more sense to me. **

Bridget went out tonight with Sharon, Jude and Tom. I am beginning to be slightly wary of her after she has spent the evening with the three of them. She is either so drunk as to be completely incoherent or else she can speak, but what she says really is the most utter rubbish. Last week, she let me stay at her flat while she went out, and when she came home she accused me of being a Martian. I am aware that we move in quite different spheres but surely that is rather an exaggeration. Then she started crying because I am a rubber band and she will never be my mother. Quite what she is talking about I still don't know but these conversations generally end with her having a rant about how I am going to dump her. By the time I have worked out quite how to tell her that it is unlikely in the extreme for me to do anything of the sort due to my being in madly in love with her, she has fallen asleep, her head lolling onto the back of the sofa.

Whilst I must confess to finding this greatly endearing, it does sadden me to think of her so grievously doubting my intentions towards our relationship, my fault of course, and a situation I must seek to rectify. I wish sometimes that I could shout out loud that, yes, I am in love with Bridget Jones but that is more for the Daniel Cleavers of this world and not for me. Whilst he can win hearts through easy words, others, like myself, toil silently, trying to show our love in a thousand little acts like leaving two aspirin and a glass of water on Bridget's bedside table after she has been out drinking.

When I admonish Bridget for getting so spectacularly drunk she thinks it's because I am somehow ashamed of her. This is not the case at all; I just worry about the harm that could come to her whilst in that state. Bridget has a knack of attracting trouble to herself and when drunk, she is a disaster waiting to happen. I am surprised she hasn't wandered into the path of a bus or suchlike before now.

But I digress, Bridget was out for the evening so I went for a drink with Giles and Jeremy. We went to a busy bar in Soho, the kind I normally can't abide but I gather Giles is having some marital problems currently and so wanted to be somewhere with "young people", as he put it. The exact reason escapes me but I do hope that this isn't the start of a mid life crisis. He has started wearing considerably jazzier ties to work, and this is just the latest in a string of god-awful bars he has dragged me to recently. I had barely been there ten minutes and was waiting at the ridiculously busy bar when I noticed several other people from work jostling their way over to us. One of the girls from the office, Rebecca Gillies, raised her hand in a wave to me. Wrong footed by the deviation from Giles, Jeremy's and my usual routine, I wondered whether, it would be polite to offer to buy them a drink, but to be perfectly honest I couldn't be bothered with rigmarole of the conversation (which had to be carried out at several decibels higher than it is comfortable to speak in, in an attempt to be heard over the tuneless music being pumped out).

"I thought it would be nice to have a bit more company," Giles shouted to me over the din. "And she seemed very keen on coming along when she overheard me talking to you about it on the phone."

Quite why he wanted to spend the evening in a hell hole like this, with half the office, and Rebecca Gillies in particular - who has never given him so much as the time of day, and has been overheard referring to him indulgently as 'Poor Giles' as though he were the dunce of the class – I couldn't imagine. Furthermore, why she wanted to spend the evening with Giles had me equally puzzled. I fervently hope that this isn't going to go the way of Jeremy and the legal secretary that used to work for us but suddenly had to leave for 'personal reasons', which we all knew translated to her being heartbroken about Jeremy going back to his wife. Both my friends knew the strength of my feelings on adultery, ailing marriage or no. I briefly wondered if I should have a quiet word with Giles at some point. For one thing, it would hardly be professional if anything did occur between the two of them.

By the time the bar man took my order, I noted bitterly that the girls from work had arrived, got served, and were already sat at a table before I had managed to buy a drink. After ordering a whisky each for Giles, Jeremy and myself, I elbowed my way through the crowd to join them. I sat down, handing the drinks to my friends, already feeling awkward in the silence that descended over the unlikely group, which was somehow made all the more obvious by the booming music in the background. I gazed miserably at the sticky tablecloth for a moment, trying to work out exactly how I had ended up in this situation.

Suddenly the awkwardness was disturbed by the violent guitar solo that I knew to be Jeremy's mobile phone. As if grateful for the chance to escape, he grabbed it from the table and made a dive for the relative quiet of outdoors. Rebecca beamed round the table at us all,

"Well, this is nice," she half-shouted over the noise. I couldn't for the life of me see why. Giles was chatting to Veronica from the office, whom he was seated next to, about his latest case. I realised I had just been sitting in silence, staring at the table in the manner of a recalcitrant child, and racked my brains desperately for something to talk about. Before I had a chance to exercise my brilliant social skills, Jeremy re-entered the bar, looking decidedly sheepish.

"That was Magda. She's locked herself out of the house and needs to borrow my key. She's just popping by to get it," he said resignedly as he glanced around the table .

I knew instantly why. Magda was often just 'popping by' when we were out in the evening, presumably to check that Jeremy was where, and _with whom_, he had said he would be. To be perfectly honest, I can't say that I blame her. Maybe if I had done a bit more 'popping by', my marriage might've lasted rather longer than it had. Jeremy was still standing up, seeming reluctant to take up his old seat, staring nervously around the table, trying to think of an alternative. Diplomatically, I slipped across to where he had been sitting, next to Rebecca, so that he could place himself in the altogether more neutral position between Giles and myself.

Within a few minutes Magda arrived and Jeremy really needn't have worried – Rebecca seemed positively delighted to see her and insisted she stay for a glass of wine. She was just dragging over a chair when the shriek of "Magda!" cut through the bass drone and sound of chatter that was filling the bar. A red haired woman rushed over and air kissed her enthusiastically, being careful not to spill her glass of wine in the process. It might have been my imagination but Magda did not look entirely pleased as she introduced her.

"Everyone this is Janey, Janey Osbourne. Janey this is Veronica, Mary and Rebecca, Mark, Jeremy you already know of course, and Giles. They all work with Jeremy," she poured herself a large glass of wine before ending with a sigh "Mark is Bridget's boyfriend."

At this Janey turned to me and looked at me rather as though I were a zebra with a gammy leg and she were a lion. I began to realise quite quickly why Magda hadn't seemed too overenthusiastic to see her here.

"Oh Mark, how lovely to meet you," she began, offering me her taloned hand "Of course, I've heard all about you from Bridget, she never talks about anything else!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Magda wince slightly at this, which confused me, as the news that Bridget thought about me, much less talked about me when we were apart made my heart swell all of a sudden, and a smile played at my lips.

"Really? Well it's always nice to meet a friend of Bridget's,"

Again, this may have been my imagination but Janey seemed slightly deflated at this and turned to Rebecca saying,

"You know Rebecca, I believe we've met before – at Corky Robinson's port and Stilton party last September,"

I managed to zone her out and turned to talk to Magda. I always found myself rather liking Magda, she was funny, kind, and seemed to have had Jeremy's balls stowed safely away in her handbag ever since she found out about his affair. My liking for her only increased last year when I found out that she was a friend of Bridget's.

"So Magda, how have you been?"

"Oh not bad Mark, not bad, although Constance has had the world's most productive cold all week. Honestly the house looks like the Exorcist has hit it. I've had to dump the kids at my mothers just for a chance to clean up."

Jeremy's eyes lit up "The kids are at your mum's? Then what are we doing here?"

Magda laughed and patted his knee "Well, did you think I'd left them tied up outside or something?" before directing her conversation back to me

"So Mark, how are things going with you and Bridget?"

The smile returned to my face although I forced myself to sound neutral,

"Oh you know, it's early days but things seem to be going well. She's out tonight with Jude, Sharon and Tom." At this Magda rolled her eyes.

"At 192 with about ten bottles of wine I guess?" she laughed fondly. I nodded, joining in with her laughter.

"Well good luck with her in the morning then." Magda was as familiar with Bridget's drinking habits as I was - more so, I would hazard.

"What is that about Bridget?" Janey shoe-horned herself back into the conversation "I might just go and drop in on her later, although it is," she checked her watch, "quarter to ten. I'm sure she will have lost the power of coherent speech by now."

I chuckled but there was something about Magda's tight lipped smile that made me refrain from commenting further. I saw Rebecca stand up and return a few moments later with another bottle of wine and three glasses of whisky gripped precariously between her fingers

"I got you boys doubles," she smiled at us as she topped up the girls' wine glasses.

"Oh not for me," said Janey, covering her glass with her hand "I'm off to 192, best go and see if Bridget hasn't passed out under the table yet."

"Mark, are you going to be bringing the mysterious Bridget to the Law Council dinner?" Rebecca asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. "She seems to have already made quite an impression on a number of our clients." Doubtless she had heard about the speakerphone incident.

Janey, who had seemed only secondss ago to be half out of her chair, sat back down and looked at me expectantly.

The thought threw me for a moment. For the last few years I had made my excuses to avoid attending the Law Council's dinner, and gradually the thought of it no longer entered my head. Whilst I knew it did my career no favours to pass up such a good networking opportunity, I simply couldn't bear to spend another night wearing a ridiculous tuxedo, becoming more depressed year on year as my cummerbund dug steadily deeper into my paunch as a measurable sign of how I am aging. Would Bridget even want to go to such a boring event? Was it not a bit soon to subject her to such an evening of torture? Although the age difference between us is only four years, sometimes it felt so much more, and the thought of her there amongst all those boring old stuffed shirts ('like you' a voice from somewhere deep inside me added) filled me with a kind of horror. It wasn't that I didn't think she could handle herself, it was more what she would think of me after seeing all those fat, balding, red faced old before their time law partners, surely an early warning to her of what was to come.

"Erm, well I…I hadn't thought about it, but I suppose I..."

Magda, seeing I was floundering, said gently "I'm sure she would love to Mark, and I'll be there to keep her company if all your lot's shop talk gets a bit much,"

"Well I suppose in that case, I could at least ask her,"

"Excellent, excellent," Rebecca rubbed her hands together smiling before turning back to Mary, the girl that had replaced Natasha when she had moved to New York last year.

Sensing the conversation had come to and end, Janey stood back up, and, after blowing kisses to us all, shoved her way through the crowd to the door. As soon as she was out of earshot Magda groaned.

"Oh no, I can't believe I've inflicted the Jellyfisher onto Bridget like that," I must've looked confused because she elaborated "She's always had it in for Bridget, so much so that the others call her the Jellyfisher, because she's always trying to sting her with some bitchy comment or another."

Well, that did seem to explain why she hadn't looked too pleased whenever Janey had mentioned Bridget.

The evening wore on and Magda's arrival, plus the addition of the two more doubles Rebecca had insisted on buying made it seem, if not pleasant, then certainly bearable. I became quite engrossed with Giles in a conversation on a rather fascinating new European law regarding gambling restrictions and was surprised at how fast the time had passed when, after about an hour of giggling at whatever Jeremy had been whispering in her ear, and turning progressively redder, Magda stood up.

"Right, we're off to take advantage of a child-free home, night everyone," she led Jeremy out the door and he turned to wave goodbye, miming at being dragged away. I noticed he quickly checked she wasn't looking before he did it.

"And then there were three," Rebecca said, slapping her knees. I had been so involved with my conversation with Giles that I hadn't even noticed Veronica and Mary leaving.

"More drinks?" Giles asked, standing up slightly unsteadily. As the barman turned the music up a notch and the lights down a notch, the feeling of not wanting to be here began to creep back into the edges of my consciousness. However, I was reluctant to leave Giles and Rebecca alone, considering my suspicions earlier. Frowning, I repeated to myself the thought that I really would have to talk to Giles on Monday. All that was temporarily pushed from my mind by the buzzing of my mobile in my pocket signalling a text message, which never failed to make me jump. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and read the display, Bridget's name making me smile as I clicked 'read message'.

The bile of panic bit the back of my throat. I gulped it frantically back down. No kiss, which had to be a bad sign. Bridget's messages were always littered with kisses and 'O's, which she assures me are hugs, as well as 'lol's, which I am still not sure of the meaning of, although I secretly hope it stands for lots of love. I haven't quite brought myself to ask Bridget if that is the case, for risk of making a fool out of myself. I felt suddenly sober as I re-read the message "I need to see you. NOW"

**A/N Sorry to stop here but the chapter was turning into a bit of a monster. I hope you don't mind I have changed things a bit but it always annoyed me in the film that Janey, who is, at most, a casual acquaintance of Bridget's, not only knows her boyfriend but also where he lives! I know that in the film this was supposed to have happened on the same day as the speakerphone incident but again, for the sake of chapter division I have split it into two different days.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - Thanks again for the reviews. Sorry I took so long to update**

I sat, dumbstruck, and trying to think of a suitable reply to the message Bridget had sent me. To be quite honest I was slightly concerned that there had been some kind of emergency, although the suspicion that I had finally done something to make Bridget realise that she could do considerably better than me did weigh rather more heavily on my mind. It felt like an age but it had barely been a few seconds after the message came in that my phone started ringing. Bridget's name flashed up on the screen and I allowed my body to relax slightly – perhaps she had sent me that message by mistake. Upon answering, however, it became apparent that this was not the case

"Bridget?"

"Mark, where are you?"

I could barely hear her because of the music but I could hear enough of her tone to deduce that there was in fact no emergency and it was decidedly the case that I had done something wrong. I ran my hand through my hair as I tried to think what it was. Had I left he toilet seat up this morning? Had I forgotten her birthday? Her voice interrupted my silent run through of all the things I could've done wrong.

"Mark are you still there? I said where are you?"

As my attention snapped back into the conversation, I suddenly realised that I didn't have the faintest idea where I was.

"Um, where am I? In Soho somewhere…. I think it's something like an animal? Elephant Bar? Erm…"

I looked to Giles and Rebecca frantically – they were both watching me with interest. Rebecca leaned over and shouted into my ear

"Zebrano"

"Mark? Mark? Who's that? Who are you with?" Bridget sounded quite agitated.

"That's Rebecca from work. She informs me that the bar is called Zebrano," I was more than a little bemused by this conversation, I must admit.

"Excuse me a minute Mark, I'm going to have to put you on hold," Bridget said in a businesslike manner. This, as far as I could gather, meant putting her hand over the phone. Due to what I knew to be an unfortunate habit of Bridget's of putting her hand over the earpiece rather than the mouthpiece, I could hear muffled snatches of the conversation:

"Well that is what she said" - "Yes, the same one" - and, inexplicably shouted, by Jude I believe, "Mentionitis!" rather as though she had just diagnosed an illness I had been suffering from. After a few more muffled moments, Bridget came back on the line.

"Mark, I'm coming to meet you. I'll be there in ten minutes."

With that she hung up, just as the word 'but' escaped my lips. I placed the phone gingerly onto the table as though it were an unexploded bomb and looked up to see Giles positively doubled over with laughter

"Well I don't see what's so funny Giles." I snapped.

"Nothing," he smirked "It's just I've never seen the unflappable Mark Darcy looking so…" he waved his arms in the air trying to find the right word before Rebecca chipped in,

"Flapped?" This, of course, sent them both off into fits of laughter.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I replied, in a tone that sounded petulant, even to my ears. I rose out my seat and put on my overcoat, slipping the offending phone into my pocket as I did so. "I'm just off to meet Bridget now so I expect I shall see you both at work on Monday. Giles, Rebecca," I finished curtly before striding towards the door. I could hear their laughter at my back, and I am sure I heard Rebecca mentioning to Giles something about who wears the trousers, as I left but I was more concerned with what was about to happen.

I stepped outside, the cold air rushing over me in a refreshing wave, washing the oppressive claustrophobia of that god-awful bar off me. I stood on the kerb and looked impatiently at my watch. Good grief, it was five past twelve. I had been waiting for what seemed like an age when a hand clapped me on the shoulder,

"Been stood up old chap?"

It was Giles, his face red and his eyes slightly glazed. He was very drunk, I realised.

"No, I'm sure Bridget will be along in a minute," I mumbled stubbornly.

"Well I'm going to call it a night – after you left, Rebecca bumped into some people she knew. I think they were talking about going dancing or something. Sounded bloody awful so I thought I would give it a miss."

"I do think that was the right decision Giles," I replied, looking at him meaningfully and trying to decide whether there was anything going on between the two of them. On reflection, possibly not. Still it wouldn't hurt to check when he was a bit more sober, if only for his wife's sake. I helped him into a waiting cab and was alone once more. Another few minutes passed and the cool air, at first so pleasant, began to seem quite chill. At last a taxi pulled up and Bridget stumbled out. I noted that, whilst she certainly wasn't as drunk as Giles had been, she had clearly had a glass of wine or two. She saw me and marched over, looking all around me expectantly before exclaiming,

"You're on your own!"

"Well, yes Bridget," I replied, kissing her hesitantly, after all, I wasn't entirely sure that my affections would be welcomed. "You asked to see me – I didn't think you'd want half my office listening in."

At this Bridget looked confused,

"Your office? But I thought you were only going out with Giles and Jeremy?"

"Yes so did I, but Giles, for some unfathomable reason, decided to turn it into a works outing. I really have had the most dreadful night, " I said impatiently, still annoyed with Giles about that, and also wondering quite where this conversation was going. Bridget however, looked as though a penny had just dropped with her.

"Oh, people from _work,_" she repeated, almost to herself, and suddenly looked very guilty, raising her hand to her mouth as she said all in a rush,

"I am so sorry. I thought...Oh, I don't know what I thought. The thing is I ran into Janey Osbourne, who said she'd just seen you with this girl, Rebecca, and Shazzer and Jude said I should get over here straightaway."

"I see, so following the orders of the dating war command, you executed a raid,"

I tried to stop the corners of my mouth twitching, relieved that there wasn't anything serious the matter. The realisation that Bridget was jealous both saddened, and made me immensely happy at the same time.

"Oh, now you're really angry with me." Her blue eyes looked up at me beseechingly and I wondered what on earth an amazing, beautiful woman like Bridget thought she had to be jealous of.

"I'm not, just disappointed," I murmured, leaning closer to her, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the faint odour of cigarettes that always gave away her lie.

"Disappointed? Oh, God, that's worse than angry."

"I'm just disappointed I can't take you home this instant."

For some reason, the road, which had previously been awash with taxis, was now quite empty. As I steered Bridget to the side of the road so we could wait for one she leaned her head against my arm, which, in turn, made a smile break out across my face. It was at this moment that the doors of the bar swung open behind us, sending forth a waft of hot air and noise. It was Rebecca, who wandered over to us,

"Mark, I'm off now, but thank you, I've had a lovely evening,"

"I thought you were off to a night club or something?" I was not quite able to lie and return the complement.

"Oh no, I considered it, but I've had quite a lot to drink and, well…" she laughed and looked pointedly at Bridget, "you've got to know when to call it a day haven't you."

At this Bridget seemed to draw herself up, angrily,

"You must be Rebecca Gillies," making it sound rather like an accusation, whilst for some reason, staring at Rebecca's legs, "I'm Bridget, Mark's girlfriend."

Rebecca put out her hand and shook Bridget's.

"Yes, lovely to meet you - it's funny, you're nothing like Mark described. Anyway, I must dash; I've got to be up for yoga at seven. Mark, I'll drop those papers we were talking about earlier, through your letterbox tomorrow morning, it's right on my way."

As I nodded to her, she leant in and kissed me on the cheek. I frowned slightly at the break in office etiquette but with that she was gone. I looked back to Bridget - she seemed to have reverted back to her bad mood of a few minutes ago and was staring open mouthed at Rebecca's retreating form, her arms folded.

"Shall we go then?" I asked, hoping the whole thing would blow over, as I guided her into a taxi that had finally appeared.

"Where are we going?" She demanded, her voice rising slightly.

My hand dropped from her back in alarm, "Your flat, why?"

"Exactly! Why?"

I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about now. We always went to her flat.

"We've been going out for six weeks and four days and we've never stayed at your house. Not once. Not ever! Why?" Her voice rose an octave and her eyes flashed angrily as she shouted at me.

There were a dozen reasons why we always stayed at her house. It was near to the places she liked to go out; she took an age to get ready in the morning and was late enough to work as it was without having to make her way across London to get ready; my house was a horrible cold shell and her flat was cosy and comfortable. All this and more, I thought. However, I didn't reply, having learnt from my ex wife that it was best not to. Instead I just climbed into the taxi, giving the driver the instruction of my Holland Park Avenue address. Thankfully, this seemed to calm Bridget down, who didn't say anything for the next few minutes. I kept my eyes down in my lap, unsure of exactly what had made her so cross, or what to do next, not least when we arrived at my house and she saw how awful it was.

Eventually, she broke the silence

"What's the matter?" All trace of irritation was gone from her voice now.

I kept my eyes down to the floor of the cab,

"I just don't like shouting."

She didn't say any more but reached over and took my hand. After a few minutes we were there. I paid the driver and led the way up the steps. Once we were inside I turned the light on and just stood in the hall, looking at Bridget. The plain white walls seemed very bright and bare. I felt very tired all of a sudden, and a bit sad.

"Well, what now?" I asked. Bridget smiled apologetically and held her arms out to me. I stepped towards her and put my hands on her waist, leaning down to kiss her gently on the lips, faintly tasting wine as she responded. The kiss became less gentle and I brought my hand up into her hair, stroking the soft locks. After a moment I pulled away,

"Would you like to go up to bed?"

"Yes please," she responded, almost shyly, and blushed a little.

I took her hand and led her up the stairs to my bedroom. As I opened the door and turned the light on, a sight greeted me that, had I not seen with my own eyes, I would not have ever been able to comprehend. There, on the bed was a young Asian boy, stark bollock naked, with a wooden toy in one hand and a baby rabbit in the other.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Here's the next chapter, sorry (again!) for the delay! Reviews are gratefully received as always**

I stood there, frozen to the spot. Bridget let out a scream next to me. I just stared as the boy smiled at me, leaning his head slightly forward and nodding encouragingly. Upon closer inspection I noticed that the set up he had with the balls and the string was actually a set of bolas, a dangerous, if rather primitive, weapon. My mind was working overtime. Why on earth could, or would there be such a child in my room? As he started advancing towards me, he dropped the rabbit on the bed. I caught sight of the startled look on its face and recognised it as not dissimilar to the one that I myself was wearing. Suddenly it dawned on me that this could be an assassin, or at least a threat sent to me. I upset a lot of very important, not very nice people at work and this wasn't the first time that I had received death threats, although, admittedly it was the first time that someone had gone to the trouble of coming round to my house to kill me. The nearest someone had come before was to send me an envelope full of anthrax which had, fortunately, turned out to be talcum powder, but had given me quite a scare regardless. I squared my shoulders and took a step back to shield Bridget from the blows that I now felt sure were coming but felt behind me only fresh air. At almost the same moment I heard the front door slam and was glad in the knowledge that at least Bridget had made it out alive. I noticed that although the boy was still smiling and nodding, he had turned his attention momentarily back to the rabbit on the bed, patting it roughly and chattering nonsense to it. I was yet to work out what the rabbit had to do with the imminent danger I faced. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction I took another step back out into the hallway and slammed the bedroom door shut, locking it with a shaking hand. Pulling out my mobile phone I dialled 999. Responding to the kind sounding woman on the end of the line, I said, in a hoarse whisper

"Police please,"

"No!" a shrill voice shouted from just next to me, and a hand reached out swiftly and grabbed my phone out of my hand, snapping it shut and hanging up the call. I was astounded to see my housekeeper standing next to me. For a few moments I started to wonder whether she was in on the whole thing, in which case, it would've been far easier for her to slip something poisonous into my food, but before I had chance to ask her anything along these lines, she broke down into noisy tears. She then proceeded to explain to me that the child assassin currently incarcerated in my bedroom was in fact her son. The child was suffering from schizophrenia and was proving to be a danger to himself when left alone at home. Rosita looked up at me, shamefaced, before going on to say that as I had been residing here so infrequently of late, she had been bringing her son to work and letting him sleep in my bedroom while she worked.

I felt slightly embarrassed, and not very manly, that I had been so quick to believe that the child was an assassin sent to kill me but as the reality was almost as strange as the fiction, I felt a little better. She peered cautiously round the bedroom door before entering. I took the opportunity to phone Bridget to check that she was alright after the scare that she had just received.

"Bridget. It's Mark. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. That was an awful thing to happen."

I was greeted by silence. Quickly I checked the display to make sure that the call had connected,

"Bridget?" I asked again.

"What?" she responded shakily. I heard her inhale sharply and realised that she was lighting a cigarette. I couldn't blame her under the circumstances. I almost felt that I wanted one myself, despite my strong views against smoking. I didn't mention it, feeling the stronger need to explain that her life had not just been threatened.

"I know what it must have looked like. I got as much of a shock as you. I've never seen him before in my life."

"Well, who was he then?" she asked. I leaned back against the wall, trying to relax.

"It turns out he's my housekeeper's son. I didn't even know she had a son. Apparently he's a schizophrenic…." My voice trailed off as I heard a shout and looked up to see the boy trying to climb up onto his mother's shoulders. Her eyes bulged out as she clawed at his hands. They disappeared out of my line of sight back into the room and I heard a muffled gurgling sound.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" I called to her. "Oh God. Look I'm going to have to sort this out. It sounds like he's trying to strangle her. Can I call you later?"

They reappeared back into view: he had his hands around her throat as she tried to beat him off, shouting at him as best she could. It was an almost comical sight.

"Hang on, just…" I called out to Rosita, striding down the corridor "Bridget, I'll call you in the morning," hanging up. I pulled the off boy her and she pushed him down onto the bed and, straddling him, forced a tablet between his clenched teeth. Almost immediately he began to relax. As he sank down, I looked Rosita in the eye and sighed with relief, the breath hissing out from between my teeth. The relief, however, was due to be short lived. A large bang on the front door shattered the silence and we both visibly jumped. The boy sat bolt upright again, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat. Rosita put her arm around his shoulder, whispering to him

"Shh, Antonio, shhh," stroking his hair as she did so.

I headed downstairs to answer the door, pressing my hand to my still pounding heart as I did so. For a second I wondered if it would be Bridget, but I could see from the porch light that there were at least two people at the door, wearing high visibility jackets. As I opened the door, I saw, with a sinking feeling, that it was two policemen.

"Mr Darcy?" one of them asked me.

"Yes…" I answered, with not a little trepidation

"You made a call to the emergency services earlier,"

"Oh gosh, well yes I did but I'm afraid it was a mistake, all just a misunderstanding. It's all cleared up now! I can assure you that everything is fine here," I laughed nervously, realising that I sounded dreadfully guilty

"Sorry Sir, but you understand that we have to check these things,"

"Thank you very much, but I won't waste any more of your time,"

I was just closing the door slowly but surely in their faces, when a piercing scream came from upstairs. The taller of the two policemen's hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the door

"I think we'll just come in and have a look around,"

I let them in with a sigh, feeling resolute that this was due to be an extremely long night. After this point, it all got rather tiresome. Obviously the policemen insisted on calling an ambulance for Antonio, which was almost certainly the right thing to do, although decidedly not the thing he wanted to do – a fact that he demonstrated quite vigorously, and with surprising agility. After he was sedated and taken off to hospital, I had to have a chat with his mother. Whilst I understood her situation was a difficult one, the way she had behaved was unacceptable and I had to let her go. This obviously made me feel so dreadfully guilty that I paid her a ridiculously large amount of money (that I have now calculated equates to approximately six months of pay at her standard rate) and drove her to the hospital. By the time I got to bed – in the spare room, as the rabbit had made rather a mess of my bed – light was streaming through the windows and I felt wearily wide awake. I tried phoning Bridget repeatedly throughout the morning, eventually getting through shortly before lunchtime.

"How are you?" I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingertips

"I'm fine," She sounded cold, obviously she was still rather put out after the evening's events.

"Shall I pick you up and we'll go for lunch and talk?"

"Um, I'm having lunch with the girls," she answered, detachedly.

"Oh God!" I exclaimes, as suddenly a thought permeated my sleep-deprived brain. Could she possibly think that I had known that the boy was there? That I had _wanted_ him there? Whilst the absurdity of the thought alone almost made snort out loud, I remembered some of the more suspect pornographic videos that Daniel Cleaver had bought (although thankfully never suggested that I watch), at university, and the things that he had made some of his ex girlfriends do, I thought that maybe she could. I once again cursed that bastard Cleaver for the things that he had done to Bridget to make her quite as mistrustful as she currently was.

"What?"

"Bridget. Do you have any idea what sort of night I've had? I had this boy trying to strangle his mother in the kitchen, the police and ambulance round, tranquilliser darts, drives to the hospital, hysterical Filipinos all over the house. I mean, I'm really, really sorry you had to go through all that but so did I and it was hardly my fault."

"Why didn't you call before?" She asked sharply. I could tell that she was still not entirely convinced. Just a hint of frustration showed in my voice when I replied,

"Because every time I got a second to call, either on the phone or the mobile, you were bloody well engaged."

Eventually I was able to convince her to meet me and it turned into rather a nice afternoon. As I ordered a second bottle of wine and held her hand over the table, she gave me the first genuine smile of the day, and I felt a lot better. After the first glass of the second bottle, I even found the courage to ask her if she wanted to come to the Law Society Dinner. She responded in a manner that I had not at all expected. A flush coming to her cheeks, she took her hand out from under mine, and putting it up to her chest as though she had just been presented with a marvellous surprise, rather than the opportunity to spend the evening with a collection of some of the dullest, and most dandruff riddled men in the country.

"Oh Mark, thank you. That would be lovely!"

The smile stretched further across her face as I wondered if she had heard me correctly, or she was under some misapprehension as to what the event would entail. Nevertheless, I felt very honoured by her enthusiasm, and greatly looked forward to having her by my side. We returned back to her animal wielding maniac-free flat where we spent the rest of the day and the evening together, the details of which, I would be very ungentlemanly to disclose here, but needless to say, make me smile to recall them now.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N - Two chapters in two days! That is definitely a record for me**

Bridget informed me last night that she would be uncontactable for the entire day today as she was going shopping for dresses with Jeremy's wife, Magda. This left me feeling strangely at a loose end that made me wonder what I did with my weekends before I got together with Bridget. However, the answer formed in my mind almost before the question – I worked. And if the work became monotonous, I would attend functions with my colleagues.

Feeling that I had rather neglected my parents of late, I thought that I had best take the opportunity to take a trip down to Grafton Underwood, in order to let my father engage in what I believe to be his favourite past time – beating me at golf. Despite the number of golf games I have had to attend through work, at which the other lawyers try to show how 'fun' they are by the ridiculous cartoon character golf club covers they have, and usually someone from corporate law gets drunk and drives a golf buggy into a lake, I am, put simply, quite appalling at golf. This is a fact that my father never stopped delighting in pointing out, wherein, I suspected, lay the majority of his enjoyment of the game.

"Finally something you aren't good at Mark," he would shout over his shoulder as he strode off down the fairway, leaving me to scrabble truculently in the bushes looking for my ball.

After we returned back to my childhood home, my father received an urgent phone call from Colin Jones and had to pop over there, still dressed in his plus fours and Pringle jumper – an outfit that would be quite respectable had my mother not sewn a Scottie dog patch onto the jumper.

My mother laughed fondly to herself as she watched my father storm off down the drive in the direction of the Jones', tucking a bottle of whisky under his arm surreptitiously as he did so. She absentmindedly brushed the dust from a dried flower arrangement that sat on the sill of the diamond leaded windows before turning back to me smiling and sitting down on the sofa,

"I wouldn't worry, I had a call from Pam earlier, telling me how her television career is really taking off again. I expect Colin has been having a good old stew over it and needs someone to talk to. Come and sit with me, Mark," she said in the soft voice that she had always reserved for me since I had been a child, patting the sofa as she did so. I moved from my current position of leaning against the fireplace, where I must confess I had been standing, moodily contemplating why my father must always beat me quite so convincingly at golf, and sank down into the squashy floral sofa. My mother grasped my hands, turning to me

"Oh Mark, you do look well. I haven't seen you look so well in ages. And it's so nice to see you in such a lovely colour, that jumper really suits you,"

I looked down to red jumper I was wearing – another of my mother's specials. I would imagine that were you rather poor of sight, you might take it to be a Lacoste jumper, which I must confess, would not be to my taste but would at least, be preferable to this. In place of the small crocodile that adorned the popular brand, my jumper instead sported a teddy bear, dressed, inexplicably, as a clown. I felt slightly shamefaced that I had only put it on in the car on the way over to my parent's house, and had instead worn a light jacket for playing golf. As I had replaced it with the jumper, I had shot my father a guilty look, mumbling that the jumper restricted my swing to which he just snorted and tapped the side of his nose to indicate that it was our secret. Having seen the clothes that my father wore on the rare occasions that he was allowed to choose his own outfit, I suspected that the animal festooned golf sweaters were not his idea of high fashion either, yet neither of us mentioned it out loud out of respect to my mother.

"Yes," she continued, "you've lost that tired look that you always seemed to have recently. I'll bet that Bridget is looking after you well is she? Lots of home cooking? Pam tells me she was quite the little chef when she lived at home"

I tried to mask my amusement at this, both at the fact that my mother thought me quite incapable of looking after myself despite my being (in my opinion) a quite adequate cook, and that she was under the illusion that Bridget was able to produce anything more complicated than a microwave pizza. My mother took my smile as a sign of affirmation and beamed back at me. I wondered idly what other claims the ever-optimistic Pamela Jones had made to my mother pertaining to Bridget, and vice versa.

"Now Mark," she carried on blithely, "you will make sure you are nice to Bridget, won't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, mother," I replied, quite bemused and slightly horrified at what she could possibly mean.

"You know Mark, _nice. _Treat her _nicely_," she enunciated as though I were ten. "You know, make sure you're always punctual, tell her she looks pretty, don't mess her about,"

"Tsk, mother," I squirmed in embarrassment, rather as though my mother was correct in her treating me as a ten year old, although I felt greatly relieved that my mother was not talking about anything less innocent.

"Oh I know, I know, that's how I've brought you up to behave, and I'm sure you do, but I just thought I'd better mention it as her parents are, you know 'friends of the family'," she finished in a dramatic whisper, as though she were expecting Pamela to jump up from behind the sofa at any moment.

"Mother, I fully intend to treat Bridget in the manner that she deserves. The fact that her parents are friends of yours is irrelevant to that,"

"Well yes, I wouldn't expect anything less of you, but you know how embarrassing it was for the Wickhams down the road when their daughter got divorced. You know – Lydia – she was married to the vicar's son. Your father and Colin always used to sing that 'Son of a Preacher' to her when they'd had a few sherries."

'Yes, and the bottle of whisky they have more than likely drunk in Colin's shed rather like naughty school boys,' I thought dryly, whilst marvelling at the fact that my mother imagined that I knew the minutiae of life in Grafton Underwood as well as she did, despite my having lived in London for the greater part of the last decade putting me at a considerable disadvantage to her secretary of the neighbourhood watch status.

"But things are going well between you?"

"Well yes, although it is early days mother," I replied cautiously, feeling my cheeks start to turn a colour not dissimilar to my jumper.

"I know, but you just seem so much happier, more at ease than you ever were with that…..other woman," she stumbled slightly on her words, knowing my reluctance to even think, let alone say aloud my ex wife's name. "That's why I thought you might like this."

Her eyes sparkled as she took something from her apron pocket and slipped it into my hand, with a deftness that hinted at the long hours she spent playing cards. Despite her gentle appearance, my mother was a ruthless and skilled card player that left my father and myself bereft of pennies only a few minutes after her expert dealing of the cards. Only my elder brother, Peter could come close to matching her, and I remember watching in astonishment at the speedy exchange of cards and muttered instructions between the two of them as they played. I felt the small velvet box in my hand and turned it over to examine it. I gasped slightly as I opened the box, looking up at my mother in surprise. Inside was a beautiful antique square cut diamond engagement ring, set in platinum, with delicate filigree work.

"It was your grandmother's," she explained. All at once it looked familiar to me. A lump appeared in my throat.

"Don't worry, I've had it cleaned," she chuckled "I know you might think it's a bit soon but I thought you'd like it, just in case,"

"Why didn't you give it to me before?" I asked, quite forgetting to protest that I wouldn't be needing it any time in the near future.

"Well for one thing, your grandmother was still alive and I did think it would be somewhat callous of me to prise it off her fingers," she laughed again before giving me a look that let me know that she understood what I meant, and continuing "But even if it had been in my possession, I would not have given it to you. It is too precious and you know I always had my doubts…before. Besides, I doubt it would've been to your ex wife's tastes."

We both sat in silence for a moment – me thinking of the modern monstrosity that my ex wife had chosen for her engagement ring; my mother doubtless thinking of the night that, unable to bite her tongue any longer she had asked me exactly what it was I saw in my ex wife, as she found her to be a dreadful cold fish and a rather rude and standoffish one at that. The irony of the fact that this opinion could have quite easily been given to Bridget about me, did not escape me.

"Well, what about Peter? I mean, he is the oldest and he has been with Caroline considerably longer. I don't want him to be put out."

"Oh no," she patted my arm reassuringly, "I wouldn't have any worries on that score. He told me at Christmas that he has already bought a ring for Caroline – he's been carrying around with him for quite some time apparently."

As I let this happy news sink in, I realised that I had little in the way of arguments against my keeping the ring remaining. Snapping the box shut, I tucked it into my pocket, smiling at my mother as I did so.

"Gosh Mark, you must be in love. Either that or you really are losing your powers of persuasion. Because I imagined that it would be at least twice as hard to convince you to take if. Now would you like some tea?"

As she went to fetch us both a cup of tea, my hand sought out the small velvet box in my pocket again. Turning it over and over in my hand, I tried to think what it would be like to be married to Bridget.

**A/N – The next chapter was meant to be the Law Council dinner but now I think there needs to be a bit of Mark/Bridget fluff first as there hasn't been nearly enough so far!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer –I do not own BJD. I also do not own Friends. In case anyone notices the reference to Clueless, I don't own that either! In case you are interested the episode of Friends that they watch is 'The One with the Prom Video'**

As always thank you so much for the lovely reviews

I sat at my desk, tossing the small box from hand to hand. It had been three days now since my mother had presented me with the ring and I was still no closer to a decision as to what to do with it than the moment that she had given it to me. I knew that I loved Bridget, and that there was not another that I wanted to spend my life with but I also knew that it was still very early in our relationship. Too early?

I, more than anyone, knew the perils of marrying in haste – repenting at leisure sounded rather preferable to finding your wife in flagrante delicto with your best friend. Thinking about Cleaver, made me remember his and Bridget's past. I gritted my teeth and clenched the box in tightly in my hand. It wasn't that I had forgotten about it, rather that I tried to block the idea of his filthy hands on her from my mind. However, at this moment, not for the first time, it overwhelmed me. On nights that we were apart, many long hours passed as I lay in bed, thinking of how happy Bridget had looked when I had seen her on the lake with Cleaver.

My ex and I, Natasha, were trying to spend some quality time together away from the office, and Natasha had suggested it might be romantic to take a turn on the lake. However we had quickly returned to our work – in reality the only point of common interest we had – and were interrupted by Bridget's carefree laughter. I remember looking up and seeing her helpless with laughter, the golden strands of her hair blowing in the breeze, her eyes shining as she looked at Cleaver, and feeling an unexpected pang deep in my stomach. At the time, I told myself it was jealousy over the fact that Cleaver was able to so easily let go of the reserve that dogs my every step, and to a certain extent that was true. But it was more than that. Up until that point I had only seen Bridget on 'best behaviour'. She had guarded herself to me, and rightly so as I had treated her abominably, but to see her let down that guard, and allow her vivacity, her energy, shine through, and to let it shine on that fucking bastard Cleaver, of all people, shook me to the core. And now, the look she gave him when she didn't know anyone was watching haunts me. For, when all the cards are on the table, could I really measure up to him? Bitter experience would suggest that the answer is no. And that thought terrified me. I knew deep down, that whilst Cleaver and my ex wife hurt me gravely, and I would truly never be the same person again, if Bridget did that to me, it would kill me.

'Bridget and I have only been together two months', I told myself sternly, annoyed that I was even entertaining the idea of proposing. I had no idea of the extent of her feelings towards me. I had no idea of a lot of things – things that one should know the answer to when considering marriage. Although I would not like to say whether it was through cowardice or prudence that I had come to my decision, my mind was made up. I opened a drawer in my desk, threw the ring to the back and closed it resolutely before rising from my chair to go and spend the evening with Bridget**.**

Bridget opened the door to me, smiling and stood up on her tiptoes for a kiss, whispering 'Hello Mr Darcy,' in my ear as she did so. I kissed her gently on the lips and gratefully took a drink from the glass of wine she passed me. Suddenly, the acrid smell of smoke hit the back of my throat and I looked to Bridget, concerned

"Is something burning?"

"Oh my God!"

She threw her hands to her face in horror before running off. As I followed her into the kitchen she had thrown the oven door open and had a hand over her mouth, trying not to choke on the black smoke issuing from within the oven. In the other hand she held an oven glove, which she flapped ineffectually over a burnt beyond repair dish of something unrecognisable which was bubbling ominously and dripping over onto the oven tray.

"Oh Bridget, you baked,"

"I tried," she responded sadly, she picked up the blackened dish and threw it, oven tray, and all, into the bin. I tried to grab it before it melted through the bin bag and succeeded only in burning my hand. I dropped it back into the bin, cursing and hopping up and down waving my hand in front of me in an attempt to cool it down.

"Silly Mark," Bridget laughed softly, although I could see the concern in her eyes as she took my hand and ran it under the tap

"It's alright," I muttered, "No harm done, except to my pride of course,"

"We can't have that now, can we?" She kissed my hand, then my lips, before pulling back and looking at the ruined dinner, which was now smouldering in the bin, strands of the melted liner falling in to it.

"Well what are we going to do now?"

"For a start," I said purposefully as I strode over to the windows and threw them open, "we are going to let some fresh air in before we asphyxiate."

"And then?" she asked, her eyes twinkling as she attempted to look innocent.

"And then, I am going to pop down to that little deli down the road and see if I can't get us some proper food. I absolutely refuse to eat anything that comes delivered to the door in a foil container or a cardboard box."

Bridget threw the takeaway leaflets that she had secreted behind her back down onto the kitchen counter with a sigh

Once in the shop I filled my basket with chorizo, olives, salad, bread, calamari and other bits and pieces. I also picked up a bottle of champagne from the fridge, to cheer Bridget up over her latest culinary disaster. For a few moments, my hand hovered over a chocolate duck wearing a little straw hat but, deciding that this was far too silly, and that Bridget would laugh at me, I instead chose a box of truffles that I knew Bridget liked. After paying the bill I walked briskly back to Bridget's flat. I felt my pace pick up as I turned the collar of my coat up against the chill wind and looked forward to being back in the warm cosy flat. Bridget let me back in and squealed as my cold hands touched the bare skin on the small of her back where her top rode up as she leant up to kiss me.

I removed my coat for what I hoped to be the last time that evening, and eased open the knot of my tie whilst Bridget carried the bags into the kitchen, trying to peek inside to see what I had bought,

"Oh no," I called to her, "You've had your turn at cooking dinner tonight and now it's mine."

I took the bags from her hands as she turned the most delightful shade of pink, still embarrassed about the dinner fiasco. I took a couple of plates from the cupboard and started to unload the cartons and dish out the food. Bridget reached round from behind me and popped an olive into her mouth. I slapped her hand away as she reached for another one,

"Go away or we won't have any dinner again,"

She pouted at me but left me alone while I served up the food. When I turned back to face her, plates in hand, I noticed that she had been busy whilst I was preparing the food. She had shut the windows again and the floor was covered in a woollen blanket, with cushions were arranged on top of it. Candles were flickering in the hearth, their scent filling the room entirely more pleasantly than the burnt dinner had.

"What's this?" I asked, smiling.

"A floor picnic," she replied solemnly, untucking my shirt, "and whilst you may look very handsome, and be ideally dressed for being a hot shot lawyer, this just won't do for a floor picnic. Not the thing at all. Why don't you pop into my bedroom and see if you can't find something more suitable?"

"Well", I murmured, stepping in closer to her, "I have always been rather partial to those little zebra print knickers of yours but I'm not sure they'll fit me. Wouldn't it be more practical if I just kept my own clothes on?"

"No, go on," she insisted, taking the plates out of my hands. As I headed to the bedroom I was filled with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. After all, I had decided only a few hours earlier that I didn't know Bridget well enough. Was I certain that she wasn't some kind of leather enthusiast or something? I must confess that I did breathe a slight sigh of relief, upon entering the room to find that there was not some kind of chains and pvc get up waiting for me. Instead, on the bed was a small gift bag. Intrigued, I sat down and pulled out the contents and was greatly touched at what I found.

Inside was a pair of blue stripy cotton pyjama trousers and a white t shirt. Bridget had often asked me if I was uncomfortable sitting around in my shirt and suit trousers when I visited her, and had obviously sought to remedy the situation in her own, thoughtful way. The kindness of the gift made me think of what my ex wife had bought me for my birthday when we had been together – a filofax – and the stark comparison between the two only served to make me love Bridget all the more. She entered the room and knelt on the bed behind me,

"Happy two month anniversary, you can keep them here if you like," she whispered shyly, resting her chin on my shoulder. I drew her tightly into my arms for a moment, inhaling the sweet smell of her hair

"Thank you so much darling, I can honestly say that that is one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received, I…I love it,"

So nearly had the words that I longed to say to Bridget but dared not - that I loved her - slipped out without thinking. I retrieved the box of truffles that I had bought earlier and concealed in my coat pocket, and passed them to her, slightly ashamed at the inadequacy of my gift.

"I didn't know if you would remember as well, sorry it's not much," I admitted. Bridget smiled at me gratefully

"Thank you Mark they're lovely. And what would you have done with them if I hadn't got you a present? Would you have kept them for yourself?"

"No, I would've still given them to you but I would've made sure I ate all the best ones,"

"If you think you're getting your hands on my soft centres, you've got another think coming!" she laughed, clutching the box to her chest and causing me to raise my eyebrow in amusement.

"Is that so?"

Laughing, she threw the box to one side and pulled me to her. A few moments later the phone rang and she jumped back from me as though she had been scalded.

"That might be Shaz," she gasped. "She's been on a date tonight," she ran to the phone. It transpired that it was Jude, who had had another encounter with her ex boyfriend, who Bridget and her friends referred to as 'Vile Richard'. Listening to the utter gibberish that Bridget was spouting, regarding his every action, I began to form a nickname for him myself – 'Poor Richard', or perhaps 'Richard the lab rat'. I wondered idly if I would ever meet him and if so, would he give me the same knowing look, as I would doubtless bestow on him, the look that betrayed the fact that I knew entirely more about his personal life than I wished to. After changing into my new clothes I sighed and wandered back into the living room where I picked up the remote, hoping to see the end of the match.

After what seemed like an age, Bridget finally hung up the phone, only for it to ring immediately again. Bridget looked from me to the phone, her face panicked, before clicking on the answer machine and sinking down on the floor next to me. When her mother's voice came out over the line, she looked relieved and picked up our plates.

As we ate, we talked. I told Bridget about my work, although obviously censoring the more boring information that I had realised over the years made peoples' eyes glaze over slightly. I asked Bridget about her day,

"Oh, you know, nothing special. I had a meeting with Richard Finch this morning – he said that my interview with that foxhunter went so well he wants to film a series of animal specials. He said it could be called Bridget's Pet People. Then I had the afternoon off to…" she looked down at her lap.

"To what?" I prompted, lifting her chin up with my hand,

"To make a romantic supper for my lovely boyfriend,"

I laughed,

"And what exactly was I due to be having the pleasure of eating? Before it met its untimely end of course,"

"It was meant to be lasagne, and then trifle,"

"I assume it was the lasagne I saw earlier, I doubt that even you would be able to burn a trifle darling,"

"Yes it was!" she replied indignantly, "The trifle's in the fridge,"

Intrigued, I went to investigate,

"And the cupboard," she finished in a low voice.

By this, I discovered that Bridget meant that the cream and custard were in the fridge, and the fruit and sponge fingers were in the cupboard.

"Shall we just have chocolates instead?" Bridget asked, as I weighed the packet of sponge fingers and a packet of raw jelly in my hands, trying to work out how to turn the ingredients into something edible for dessert. I conceded and took one as Bridget set up a DVD before contemplating the box of chocolates.

"Maybe I shouldn't – I want to look good for the Law Council Dinner, oh just one won't hurt," before putting one in her mouth. Again I got the feeling that she had rather the wrong idea about the evening,

"Bridget, I can assure you that you will be quite the most beautiful woman there. But are you sure you want to go? It is going to be frightfully dull after all,"

"Of course I do Mark – I just want your friends to like me,"

"They'll love you, I don't think you'll have to worry about that,"

Of that fact I was certain. I found it hard to believe that anyone could fail to be charmed by the mix of love for life, the inability to stop exactly what she is thinking from coming out of her mouth, and the healthy ability to laugh at her own silliness that made Bridget so refreshingly different from all the other women I knew. What concerned me more was what she would think of them. I wasn't stupid – I knew that Bridget and her friends were to the people I socialised with, as oil to water but I hoped that it wouldn't be a mistake introducing them to her. Rather than contemplate this further, I turned my attention back to the television.

Horrified that I had never watched the show, Bridget had taken it upon herself to educate me in the ways of 'Friends'. The show was tolerable, enjoyable even, although quite what the fascination over the love lives of fictional characters was, I couldn't tell. As the credits rolled, Bridget snuggled into my chest, and I marvelled at how content I felt being with Bridget, just as we were. We watched the episode in companionable silence although I was surprised to see that Bridget's eyes were wet with tears at the end.

"Now who's silly," I smiled, wiping her eyes with the edge of my t shirt.

"But he's her lobster!" she wailed, making lobster claws with her fingers and snapping them in my face.

I imagined that this was something akin to speaking to each other in baby voices, or giving each other ridiculous nick names like 'Tiger bum' or 'Baby cakes', and sat resolutely trying to ignore her, only a slight smile at the corner of my lips revealing my amusement. Of course, the more I tried to ignore her, the more she did it, leaping up into my lap with a squeal of delight. I tried to turn my head away to hide my smile but she just ducked down into my eye line, saying "Lobster?" in a squeaky voice. This was my undoing and I threw my head back, roaring with laughter.

Of course, lobster claws led to tickling, which led to chasing each other round the flat, which led to….well, I'm sure you can imagine

Afterwards, when we were lying side by side in bed, I reached out for her hand and linked my index finger and thumb with hers. I could feel her smiling in the dark.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi thanks again for all your kind reviews. **

**In response to Amnyous's review: Apologies for keeping you waiting – I know how frustrating it is waiting for a story to ****update. Ironically I was logging on to post the next chapter when I saw your review. This is my first fic so forgive me if it is slow going but unlike many stories on here I promise that this one will be finished in the end. I don't know how S Faith has the will power to finish a story before posting it but it is something that I doubt I will ever do so if you find it too annoying to wait why not send me a message then I will reply and let you know when the story is finished so you can read it all in one go. In my defence, as I only started this story at the beginning of May and as we are still in July I think it is a bit of an exaggeration to say I leave it two months in between posting chapters. **

**Anyway, here's the long awaited chapter….**

* * *

"Just make sure you don't do what I did," Jeremy's voice echoed around the court as he swung his racquet. I took a step back as the ball bounced off the back wall and started travelling towards me.

"And what was that?"

"I bet Anthony Carruthers that I could polish off a bottle of rather lovely brandy that we had been drinking before he finished his speech. The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning engaged!" I had been considering asking his advice regarding the ring my mother had given me but he said the last word with such theatrical horror that I felt glad that I hadn't.

"I think it is highly unlikely that I will find myself in such a situation, Jeremy," I replied in a low voice. I was of course referring to the fact that I did not share Jeremy's penchant for competitive drinking, but the fact that Bridget was unlikely to accept such an offer did not escape me

"Oh of course, I forgot – you can't do anything spontaneous can you"

This comment touched a nerve with me and I hit the ball with unnecessary force, causing Jeremy to duck as it whizzed past his ear.

"I believe that's the game," I said, just managing to keep the smirk from my face. Jeremy sighed and walked to the back of the squash court to retrieve the ball.

"Not that there'll be any booze left if Bridget's there!" he guffawed. I let this scarcely veiled insult sink in, stony faced.

"Oh Mark, don't just stand there looking like the fat girl at the disco, you know what Bridget's like. I remember you coming back to work last January all embarrassed because you'd upset the poor alcoholic daughter of one of your parents' friends." I cringed inwardly at the fact that I had been so ungallant as to describe anyone that unjustly, let alone the woman I was due to fall in love with.

"Well what did you think of Bridget when you first met her?" I asked Jeremy, tentatively. I am not so blinded by love that I am unable to see Bridget's faults, and whilst her ability to consume alcohol until she becomes quite silly and falls over might seem amusing, even charming at times to those who love her, tonight at the Law Society Dinner would not be the best time for this particular party trick to be displayed.

"Oh mad as a box of frogs old chap. Same as all of Magda's friends. Completely loopy the lot of them. Of course it didn't help that the first time I met Bridget she was pretending to be Scottish and then she ended up going arse over tit into a bush and ending up with her dress up over her head, showing her knickers to half of Clapham,"

For a moment I fought the urge to punch Jeremy, wondering, not for the first time, how we became friends. "Well good luck tonight anyway Mark, I'm sure you'll be able to keep Bridget under control," at this Jeremy sniggered slightly "see you on Monday for the full breakdown" he called, swinging his squash bag onto his shoulder and heading for the door. My head shot up in surprise

"Are you and Magda not attending tonight then?"

"No, she couldn't find a babysitter for Constance apparently…but," he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "she hasn't been that keen on attending these thing since that thing with Claire, you know," at this he at least had the decency to look shamefaced.

I felt slightly perturbed that the only ally Bridget had tonight - other than me of course - was unable to be there, but just nodded to Jeremy, not keen to enter into conversation about his affair. He raised his hand in farewell and let the door slam behind him as he left me alone in the squash court. Although I had tried not to let it, his words had troubled me more than he would've ever suspected. Just last week I was able to tell Bridget, with total honesty that my colleagues would like her when she met them. However, were she to ask me the same question again at that moment, I was not certain I could answer again with the same alacrity. I felt suddenly frustrated and overwrought about tonight, and ended up smashing the ball around the court for a few minutes before I emerged, red faced and panting but feeling slightly calmer.

----------

I stood on the steps and waited for Bridget, my pacing up and down the only thing to belie my calm exterior. A couple of people I knew only by association passed me and greeted me before entering. A taxi pulled up and Bridget got out. For a moment everything felt like it was in slow motion as she smiled up at me, rendered in golden monochrome from the street lamp. I wondered briefly, although not for the first time, what a beautiful woman like Bridget was doing with me. As she walked towards me I took in her dress, her sophisticated hairstyle, so different from the messy waves she normally let her hair fall into, her face flushed – with nerves or cold I couldn't tell. Very flushed. She called up to me,

"Am I late?"

"No, I'm early," I smiled "knowing you as I do, I wasn't exactly honest about the time you needed to arrive. As it is, you are right on time,"

As she hurried up the steps towards me the bright light from behind me illuminated her I could see that she had clearly had some kind of accident with her make up. I fought back a smile as I tried to fathom how exactly it could be that she had painted her face bright red. For a moment I forgot where we were and nearly threw back my head and laughed, but instead I kissed her rosy cheek and led her inside,

"Hello. I think you should go to the ladies." I murmured in her ear. Luckily, the organisers of the Law Society Dinner were so unimaginative to hold the event in the same place every year for as long as I could remember and so I was able to steer her immediately to the toilets.

"But I went before I left home," she hissed back at me, looking bemusedly at an elderly couple that passed us in the hall, their faces twin pictures of alarm.

I smiled in spite of myself at her stubbornness but I knew she would be mortified if I let her remain in her current state any longer than was necessary, so I insisted, turning her to face a mirror to emphasise my point. If possible, she turned even redder and rushed off to the ladies. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had managed to convince her to go before I had had to introduce her to anyone, before feeling faintly disgusted at myself that I had slipped – albeit momentarily – into the bitchy, eager to impress attitude that seemed to flourish in this kind of atmosphere. I imagined how we would laugh about Bridget's characteristically less than impressive entrance when we were in less formal surroundings.

"You're looking rather pleased with yourself," a voice announced close by my ear. I span round to find Rebecca Gillies from work at my side. I hadn't realised I had been smiling to myself about Bridget's face.

"Oh, hello Rebecca, I was just thinking of something funny that happened earlier – I beat Jeremy at squash," I lied, feeling uncomfortable as I did so but keen to save Bridget's embarrassment.

"You boys, you're all the same. You all want to be the best at sport, earn the most money, drive the fastest cars…date the prettiest women. Speaking of women, you seem to be lacking in one tonight, although I saw Bridget's name on the list of invitees," She lowered her voice and leaned towards me conspiratorially, "Don't say there's trouble in paradise Mark?"

"No no, she's just popped away for a moment to refresh herself,"

"Well that's good. I was beginning to think I would have to volunteer to step into the breach!" She laughed. I wondered why but nodded politely – surely I wasn't that horrific a prospect to become office gossip as to whom would have to become my charity date. I paused for a moment, wondering what to say and remembering suddenly the crashing awkwardness, the inability to make small talk that descended over me on occasions such as this. She looked at me, perhaps sensing the forced nature of my smile and spoke again,

"You know, I was sitting in the other day when you were summing up the Rossinor case – it was spectacular."

"Oh, thank you. I didn't see you there," I replied, glad to be on a subject I felt more comfortable with but before we could continue, we were joined by Derek Abbot and his wife Camilla, and Horatio Forster. They were the two senior partners at Forster and Abbott and the most dreadful bores. However, they put an awful lot of business our way and enjoyed the sounds of their own voices so I knew it was my duty to listen.

"Mark, how good to see you. You haven't been to one of these evenings in years," said Derek warmly, shaking my hand, "And is this the girl I've heard you've been stepping out with recently?"

"Oh no, this is Rebecca, a colleague," I worried as the words left my mouth that I had put too much emphasis on this last word but I wanted as little as possible to make Bridget uncomfortable, and for her to emerge from the toilet to find me in the middle of a misunderstanding over whether Rebecca was my partner or not, would almost certainly make her uncomfortable.

Rebecca laughed again loudly,

"Yes, I was just saying to Mark that I was worried for a moment that I would have to step in as his date as his girlfriend seems to have vanished, and I am a charitable soul after all,"

""Are you indeed dear girl?" Horatio snorted condescendingly in the way that I recognised signalled the start of one of his outdated tirades. "Can't stand charity myself. For one thing that….Band Eight? Live Eight?" he waved his hand vaguely, "snarled up the traffic something rotten and made me miss the opera. And also, I don't see why we had to abolish the poor houses – after all it would stop them lounging around on the streets and we could get them to do a few of the jobs all these immigrants have been doing. That way they can buy as much heroin as they like and it'll stop all our money being sent off to some fruit picker's family in Poland. And that'll have the added benefit that I won't have to step over some great unwashed every time I go to the shop to buy a paper,"

I tried my best to remain focused but I could see that Rebecca was quickly becoming bored of this man's voice. She was looking distractedly over my shoulder and then lent in to pick a piece of dust of my lapel before replying to Horatio in a flippant tone,

"How charmingly Dickensian. I can't say that I _disagree_ per se, but then I'm not in need of anything. Those receiving the aid might feel a bit differently, but then they don't often get the benefit of freedom of speech so I wouldn't know,"

I saw Horatio's face turn a particularly unpleasant shade of purple but was saved from having to diffuse the situation between the two of them by Bridget's reappearance at my side. The feeling of pleasure at having her beside me distracted me momentarily, although in the back of my mind was the fact that Rebecca was a potential liability and would need close monitoring. After all, she was only an intern and new to these kind of events. I decided to ask Giles, who was due to be sitting next to her, if he would swap seats with me so I could keep a closer eye on her during the meal. I pushed down the feeling of annoyance that I wouldn't get to spend the evening with Bridget, before turning to her and smiling,

"Hello Bridget, this is Derek, Horatio, Camilla," gesturing to each of them in turn. Bridget raised an eyebrow at me in curiosity,

"Horatio?"

"Yes, Horatio." I replied in a muted tone, hoping that Bridget wasn't going to act up.

"Horatio was just saying he's totally against charitable giving," I continued. To my chagrin, although not wholly unexpectedly, Bridget laughed in surprise

"What? Well, obviously you don't mean it."

If possible, Horatio turned an even deeper shade of puce. Whilst I obviously couldn't condone either Rebecca's or Bridget's behaviour, I couldn't help but be slightly amused at the fact that this was quite possibly the most flustered I had ever seen the eminent Horatio Forster.

"Absolutely. Do you think it's helpful to give a beggar fifty pence?"

"Maybe he's just hungry." Bridget countered, raising her voice indignantly.

"Don't be so naive. The people you see outside the tube every day are there by choice. End of story." Horatio smiled smugly, considering the argument over

"Oh, no, it's not. Some people have terrible personal problems, and other people might have lost their family in some tragic ferry disaster. And some people are just plain hopeless. Honestly, this is the sort of rubbish you'd expect from fat, balding Tory, Home Counties, upper-middle-class twits."

The horror dawned over her face slowly as she realised exactly who she was talking to. I cringed and looked down at my feet. For a moment no one knew where to look. I excused Bridget and myself before leading her away by her elbow. I gave myself a moment before trusting myself to speak, reminding myself as I did so that Bridget had no idea who she had just been talking to, and at the same time vowing never to become one of those men that Bridget held so low in her regard. I looked down at her, and one look at her mortified face dissolved the last of my anger,

.

"How did l do?" she asked nervously, knowing that she had let me down.

"You seem to have made quite an impression," I replied as gently as I could, knowing it was I who would bear the brunt of the repercussions from this incident. I consoled myself in the knowledge that at least Bridget need never know that.

I explained to her that she would be sitting with Giles for the remainder of the evening although I didn't tell her the reasons behind that decision. I had a feeling that for some reason Bridget and Rebecca hadn't hit it off and I didn't want to exacerbate that situation by letting Bridget know that Rebecca had caused problems tonight. She seemed disappointed but knew better than to make a scene here.

As we sat down to dinner, I attempted again to make small talk but to be truthful, I ended up eating my meal with a look of grim determination on my face, just eager to make the evening come to an end. After the meal there were the inevitable speeches that dragged on sufficiently for me to be able to begin to understand why Jeremy ended up getting so very drunk. After that there was a quiz. Again, I found this rather dull but at least managed to hide it better than Bridget who looked as though she was about to fall asleep into the cheese plate. I felt a twinge of annoyance that she was not at least pretending to enjoy herself, and hoped that she was not drinking too much. Was it normal for one to have to exercise an almost parental level of care over a partner, I wondered, as I passed the answer to one of the questions to Rebecca, telling her as I did so,

"I believe this is the answer"

Only during the final round, 'Contemporary Culture', did Bridget show some semblance of interest, answering nearly all the questions single handed and bringing her team forward to draw level with my own. It was only at the last question that she stumbled, and Rebecca answered correctly, meaning we won. I saw Bridget's face flush with embarrassment and turn sullen. Whilst I doubted she was overly concerned about the results of the quiz, she looked close to tears and I felt an overwhelming desire to get her, and myself, away from this place.

I said my goodbyes more quickly than was polite and fetched our coats. As I rejoined Bridget, Rebecca came over to say goodbye,

"Lovely to see you Bridget," she said, although her smile didn't reach her eyes. I hoped that she hadn't noticed how bored Bridget had looked earlier.

"Oh thanks Rebecca," Bridget said dismissively, glaring at her. I breathed a silent prayer that this evening would just end, or that the ground would swallow me up – whichever could be sooner.


	10. Chapter 10

We walked for a few minutes in total silence. I was feeling exhausted, uncomfortable in my suit and annoyed at myself that I had set myself up in this situation by agreeing to go to the wretched dinner in the first place. I glanced over at Bridget as she wrapped her thick black coat more tightly around herself. I tried to think of something to say to her to break the awkward silence that had descended between us but she spoke up first,

"Why didn't you speak to me all night?" she asked plaintively

"That's the point of those dreadful dinners," I replied, trying - and perhaps failing - to keep the condescending tone from my voice.

"But you talked to Rebecca, and you talked to Horatio. I'll never fit in with your friends."

I noticed that her tone had become slightly accusatory, and tried to think of a way to honestly answer this question without inflaming the situation further. The truth of the matter was that Bridget had completely put her foot in it tonight and she and I both knew it - the fact that she didn't know the extent of her faux pas was irrelevant. However, although I didn't think it fair to pass the telling off that I would doubtless receive onto Bridget, it still rankled and I snapped back,

"Not if you go on calling everyone 'balding, upper-middle-class twits'." I longed to ask her the question that had been plaguing me since she had spoken of my contemporaries with such disdain - whether she thought more highly of me than that. However, coward that I am, I didn't dare for fear that I already knew the answer.

"Well, they were balding, upper-middle-class twits, except for the ones who had hair. I suppose you agree with them that poor people deserve to be poor?" The fact that she compared me to them so directly, the very thing that I had been afraid of, cut me to the quick. If she thought so little of me then surely her finishing the relationship was inevitable, a thought filled me with dread

"Don't be ridiculous." I replied defensively, although the very fact that Bridget had made the comparison meant that the argument had been lost.

"So now I'm ridiculous?" her eyes shone with anger and hurt,

"Yes, tonight you were a little."

"Well, tonight you were an arrogant arse. I think I may have made a mistake inviting you and your folding underpants into my life. Good night." She turned to go but stopped and span on her heel to face me again. Her face was a mask of cold impartiality and I felt sure that she was about to leave me with the parting shot of an order not to contact her again. Instead, the cryptic line that she issued stopped me in my tracks,

"If you had asked me tonight, I'd have said no, anyway."

Could it be that my face and manner was so transparent that she was able to answer the question I had been afraid to ask, and that she saw no difference between me and those pompous windbags that we had been forced to endure the company of. Or could it be that she and I were utterly at crossed purposes and she was talking about something else entirely? Although it might result in my hearing the thing I wanted to hear the least, I had to know. As she walked quickly away from me, I shouted after her

"Asked you what?" She didn't turn around or even pause. I could feel her slipping away from me and shouted again, although the hope that she would turn around had diminished significantly,

"Bridget?" by now she was almost our of earshot and my voice broke slightly in desperation, "Asked you what?"

I could've chased after her, grabbed her shoulder, forced her to listen to me and to talk back, until the matter was resolved one way or another but I felt rooted to the spot. I stood there, staring at her back until she was completely out of sight. Not once did she turn around. I pulled my collar up and turned and walked in the other direction.

As I walked slowly through the darkened streets of London, a light drizzle began to fall, adding another layer of imperfection to my highly unsatisfactory evening. I gritted my teeth in annoyance at Bridget's overreaction, wondering why she seemed incapable of having a civilised adult discussion about anything. I felt sure that had she not run off, the matter would've been resolved all the more quickly, instead of us both sulking like this, having solved nothing.

I believed that I had been wandering aimlessly so when I looked up from the rain-slicked pavement, I was surprised to find myself just a few streets away from where Bridget lived. I wondered how long I had been walking like this as I had covered at least a couple of miles, yet to my mind only a few minutes had passed. All of a sudden the heavens opened and the steady drizzle became a downpour. The neon sign from an all night café turned the water to molten silver as it ran down the drains and I ducked under the awning of the café to gather my thoughts. It would only take a couple of minutes to get to Bridget's from here but I was not ready to see her yet and so stepped inside and purchased a coffee from the elderly lady who stood with a weary resignation behind the counter.

I sat down with my coffee, stirring the milk in absently with a tarnished teaspoon. The gently strumming guitar of an old song was playing softly on the jukebox. I strained my ears to listen and realised it was Joni Mitchell. It suited my melancholy mood perfectly and I stared out at the rain streaming down the window, my chin resting on my hand. After a few moments, a loud and quite disgusting sniffing from behind me interrupted my reverie. I stiffened but ignored it for as long as I could. However, my patience had already been severely tested tonight and after a particularly violent sniff issued from what I felt sure would be a hooded youth, I span round on the brightly coloured plastic seat of the booth I was sitting in to ask if they would mind terribly from refraining from it. My harsh 'excuse me', died on my lips as I was confronted with a lady not much older than myself, her eyes red rimmed and wet with tears. I found my remonstration transform into an offer of a handkerchief,

"Sorry," she said, shamefaced, as she took it. She glanced down at my rain soaked attire before attempting a smile "You look like your evening's been going about as well as mine,"

I smiled back and told her to keep the handkerchief, before turning back to stare downwards into my coffee. I was startled by a movement in front of me and looked up to see the lady sliding into the seat across the table from me.

"I'm Karen," she volunteered, "and I'm a strong believer that if James Bond turns up, even if he is a bit wet, you should at least buy him a cake" she slid a saucer with a slice of cake across the table towards me. I took in the lady, with her tear stained face and frumpy clothes, and decided she was just in need of some company.

"Thank you. Is everything all right? You look a bit…." I struggled to find a non-offensive word to fill the gap at the end of my sentence but she didn't seem to notice.

"Oh yes, I'm fine...you know, keeping on keeping on," her lip trembled slightly before she composed her face into a forced smile and placing both hands on the table looked at me, "and why are you here, James?"

"I took my girlfriend to a dinner with my work colleagues and I'm afraid I made a bit of an arse of myself. She didn't know anyone and I left her on her own all night. Then to top it off, on the way home I insulted her and then let her walk home on her own,"

"And you still want her to be your girlfriend?"

"Yes, of course," I answered, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Well why are you here then?"

"Why are you here?" I countered, more to take the focus off myself than anything.

"Honestly? Because I _accidentally_ checked my husband's emails and saw he had booked us a skiing holiday. It was one of the nicest things he's done in years. Only according to the email we were meant to be leaving in the morning and yesterday he came home and told me he had to go on a week long conference with his assistant. His young, beautiful assistant. I felt so stupid I didn't say anything – I thought he hadn't told me because he wanted it to be a surprise. I'd packed our children off to my brother's, and you have _no_ idea how difficult that was and I didn't really want to sit in an empty house on my own so I came here. I don't even know how to ski!"

"Oh I am sorry," I murmured, not knowing where to look.

"Don't be, James, not your fault. It isn't the first time Harry hasn't been able to keep it in his trousers. I should know better"

"You know I'm not really James Bond don't you. Far from it, in fact "

"Yes, I know you aren't," she laughed sadly, "for one thing, if you were, you wouldn't be here – you would've gone and got your girl by now,"

"So what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I'd leave him in a minute if that didn't mean that I would have to tell everyone what a fool I've been. That and…I love him. Just like you love your girlfriend. And if you don't go and make up with her right now, I'm going to have that on my conscience as well,"

I sensed she felt embarrassed and didn't want to talk about it any more. I thanked her for the cake and wished her well – I wasn't arrogant enough to think I could advise her in any way about her predicament despite my experience in the matter. I ran the last few roads to Bridget's flat and rang the bell urgently. After a few moments she answered and sounded rather inconvenienced.

"Yes, who is it?"

"It's me," I replied into the intercom, before adding, "Mark," in a paranoid afterthought that 'me' might be a little too presumptuous.

"Oh, right, erm, just a moment. I'm on the phone,"

To whom, I wondered. Surely Bridget was not so heartless as to be ringing for a replacement already. I felt my heart pounding in my chest. After what felt like an eternity, her voice crackled over the intercom again

"What do you want?" she asked coldly. I dredged up every ounce of courage I possessed, resolving to take charge of this situation before misunderstanding and miscommunication made it even worse,

"I'd like to come up. You are, after all, my girlfriend," please say you still are, I prayed.

"Even though I shouted at you and called you an arrogant arse?" she sounded doubtful, but not hostile. The sound of her voice made my heart ache and I could remain silent on the subject of my feelings no more,

"Unfortunately, yes. You see, the problematic thing is...I love you," I said in a low voice, the last three words coming out in a rush of breath.

"What?"

"I said I love you," I spoke more clearly and found it easier to say the second time.

"I'm sorry, I missed that again,"

I could hear the laughter in her voice and became aware of the fact that she was teasing me. Also, the fact that she had not told me that the sentiments were reciprocated sent a wave of nausea over my body.

"I said I love you, for God's sake!" I shouted impatiently into the microphone, becoming instantly award of the post-pub crowd of youths behind me laughing at my outburst but for once not caring about my behaviour.

"All right, no need to shout. I'll come down and let you in,"

A moment later she opened the door, her cheeks flushed,

"You might be needing this in the future," Bridget smiled as she held a key out to me. I smiled back and leant in to kiss her.

As we laid in bed together, I felt Bridget's eyes boring into me, as though she were waiting for me to say something. Without opening my eyes, I muttered to her,

"Bridget, you're staring at me again,"

"Sorry," she replied. I looked at her, and leant up on one elbow, still feeling as though she was expecting something from me.

"Listen, I know this evening didn't go exactly as planned, but there was a very important question I wanted to ask you tonight." Bridget raised an eyebrow in interest, her face hopeful. Although I was desperate to ask her if she really did think I was like those old bores, I sensed that this was not the time and racked my brains to think of something else to ask her

"Oh, really?" she prompted

Although Bridget seemed happy again, I still felt that I needed to do something to make up for the way I treated her earlier. I thought back to what the lady in the coffee shop said earlier and took a deep breath. I hoped that Bridget wouldn't think this too forward of me, but after she had shown me her commitment with the key, I was not just going to stand still and do nothing as I did earlier,

"Yes. I've actually been meaning to ask this for quite some time. I've just never really found the right way to put it. Darling Bridget, would you like to go on a skiing mini-break?"

Her face lit up, and she agreed with enthusiasm as an intense feeling of relief washed over me.


	11. Chapter 11

Hi here is the latest instalment - sorry to Revelsmyboy that this is slightly later than promised. As always I don't own Bridget Jones's Diary and I don't even own Karen from the last chapter – she's from Love Actually but I forgot to say.

Thanks again for your reviews everyone.

* * *

Apologies for not updating for the past few days but I have been away in New York and was loath to take this diary with me. I have always been a nervous flyer and had visions of the plane crashing and whilst I perished, my diary would remain intact for all my loved ones to read my sometimes less than favourable thoughts on them. I shall try and recap all that happened on my trip, although the details of my work may be slightly tedious to recount, as well as much of it being confidential, meaning it would be unwise to write it down here. I was meant to be going over for a few days with Jeremy to discuss several high profile international cases that we were dealing with in tandem with our partner firm, Abbott and Abbott. However, at the last minute Jeremy had to go to court and was unable to go, meaning he had to be replaced with Rebecca Gillies. This meant that my workload would be greater during the trip but at least I would be able to return home after two nights instead of three as there were some things that Jeremy would have to fly over separately to discuss. I generally disliked going on long business trips but the fact that this one would make me miss my first Valentines Day with Bridget made it all the more unappealing. She didn't mention it but I could tell that she too was disappointed by the tone in her voice when I told her about it.

Bridget drove me to the airport at five in the morning, her hair still mussed from sleep. I told her that a car would be available to take me but she insisted, a fact that made me happier than I admitted even to her. As she dropped me off she pulled my face to hers and kissed me so tenderly it made my throat hurt and threw her arms around my neck.

"I love you Mark," she whispered. It was the first time she had said the words out loud to me, and they carried me through the tedium of check in as well as the buttock clenching terror of take off. After that, I watched the film, ate the dire food and waited to get my feet on terra firma once more. I met Rebecca at baggage collection as she, being a lowly intern, had to travel economy class. We then got a taxi to the hotel in the near silence of two people had been awake far longer than they should have been. I was still mildly annoyed that Jeremy, my intended partner on this trip had pulled out at the last minute, meaning that a lot of our long hours of preparation would be rendered useless but tried not to take it out on Rebecca as she asked me a few questions about the work. After what seemed like an age, we finally arrived at the hotel.

I felt my shoes sink into the plush carpet as we approached the reception desk, and passed the boy who took our bags a five dollar bill with a quiet 'thank you'. The receptionist looked up from the computer and smiled expectantly,

"Hello, we've got two rooms booked in the names of Darcy and Gillies,"

"Ok, welcome to the Empire Hotel, I'll just get your key cards," she replied in a friendly tone, tapping our names into the computer. She paused for a moment, frowning at the screen,

"We've got a double room booked for two occupants in the name of Gillies, but that's it…."

"I'm afraid there must've been a mix up," I insisted, to set Rebecca's mind at rest – she had gone rather red, perhaps worrying about our sleeping arrangements,

"I definitely said two rooms, when I rang up," she interjected crossly. Possibly she was concerned that she would be held responsible for the mistake. I had told her a few days earlier that I would be monitoring her progress closely at work. This was in light of the fiasco at the Dinner, although I felt it neither necessary nor appropriate to mention that to her. I tried to make it as informal a chat as I could, as I didn't want her to feel that she were in trouble, but it played on my mind that I may have upset her as she had seemed quite flustered at the time.

"I'm dreadfully sorry madam, sir. Whoever entered the booking on the computer here must've made a mistake. Let me just check the computer to see if there are any available rooms,"

I was surprised and disappointed at the mistake, so unlike the efficient service that I had come to know and enjoy upon my frequent trips to America, and so tired from the trip that, were she to offer me a cleaning cupboard to sleep in, I wasn't entirely convinced that I wouldn't take it.

"Here we go then Sir," the receptionist said, in a slightly relieved tone, handing me my key card, "obviously we have only charged you for one room so we will have to charge you for a second. I've upgraded you to a deluxe suite free of charge, though, to make up for the inconvenience," I thanked her, grateful that sleeping in the cleaning cupboard wasn't an option. I wondered for a moment whether I should offer Rebecca the superior room but weary selfishness prevented me from doing so. I was just about to step into the lift when the receptionist called me,

"Oh, Mr Darcy, we've got a parcel here for you,"

I took it from her and returned to the waiting lift, looking down at the package in my hands. I turned it over in my hands, instantly recognising Bridget's neat script spelling out the address of the hotel and, on the reverse, 'Do not open until Feb 14'. Rebecca leaned over to look at it,

"Are those the case notes for Thompson vs Klein?"

"No, I suspect this is something entirely different,"

She paused for a moment, looking at me curiously but obviously decided to ask no further questions. I didn't offer any more information, just smiled to myself.

After departing the lift, I fiddled with the key in my door for a moment. Rebecca asked me if I wanted to meet her for a drink in the bar but I had to give my apologies as I was starting to feel dizzy with fatigue. I entered my room and almost had time to take in the luxuriously decorated room as I stripped off and climbed into bed, falling asleep in a matter of seconds.

When I woke, I was unsure whether I was in a nightclub, a building site, or the middle of the motorway. After a few moments of total disorientation I got up and looked out the window: it appeared that a combination of the three would be more accurate, and I wondered how long one had to spend in this city before they became accustomed to the noise. The sun looked quite high in the sky and I was surprised to look at my watch and find it was nearly 11 in the morning. I went straight to the shower, grateful that I had no meetings scheduled until two that afternoon. I twisted my neck from side to side, crunching out the kinks that ten hours of sleep had left in my vertebrae, feeling instantly refreshed as the cool water hit me. To say I was dreading this afternoon's meeting would be an overstatement, although I was not relishing the prospect of facing my erstwhile (albeit only briefly) employers and was glad of a few hours of solitary respite to collect my thoughts. This also allowed me some time to make a few personal calls. Firstly I tried to phone Bridget but it didn't connect. Possibly she was on the tube, possibly she had dropped her mobile down the toilet again. I then took a deep breath and phoned Natasha. Although I had spoken to her several times by email both on a professional and personal basis, this was the first time I had heard her voice. When the call connected she sounded pleased to see me, which i took to be a good sign,

"Mark! What a surprise to be hearing from you!"

"Hardly," I replied wryly "You know I'm coming in to your office this afternoon. I just thought I would ring and check there wasn't going to be any…awkwardness between us,"

"No of course not! And besides – much as I would love to see Hank give you a bollocking for leaving him in the shit at Christmas, I doubt our paths will even meet. I checked the schedule and I am due to be spending the afternoon ensconced in discussing the Bolivians with Ms" she paused, and I heard the shuffling of some papers, "Gillies?"

"Yes, Rebecca. A quite talented new intern, although I suspect she may be a bit of a loose cannon. That is a shame I won't get to see you though," I said, although secretly quite relieved that I would manage to avoid seeing my ex girlfriend in person,

"Well, why don't we go for drinks tonight at the Rainbow Rooms, have a catch up?" She suggested. I cursed my own politeness whilst hearing myself accept and scribbled down the details on a piece of hotel notepaper. After we said a cordial goodbye I tried Bridget again – it was now engaged. I countered the feeling of frustration by looking again at the parcel that was laying on the desk next to me. I ran my fingers over the brown paper, missing Bridget immensely and fighting the urge that had overtaken me, as with last time I was in America , to jump on the next available plane home. Next I rang an international number; the florist that I occasionally used to send bouquets to clients,

"Hello?" the voice came out tinny and small.

I spoke as clearly as I could, and ordered two dozen red roses, hoping that Bridget would not find this too clichéd or sleazy. After taking down Bridget's work address, the florist asked me if I wanted to send a message with the flowers. I thought for a moment. 'Your secret admirer' was tacky in the extreme and had the added risk that Bridget might not think they were from me. I looked from the sheaves of paperwork that I had piled up onto the desk, to the view out the window of the skyline full of sights that I had neither the time, nor (without Bridget being by my side) the inclination to explore. I was reminded of our last night together before I had left: we went for a walk in Hyde Park, upon which Central Park was modelled; ate hotdogs and watched films set in New York, during which Bridget insisted I pointed out places I would be visiting ('Sort of sight-seeing, in reverse' she had giggled). I believe it is safe to say I had more fun in those few hours than I would do during my entire trip here. Inspired, I repeated to the florist the message I had just thought of,

"Happy Valentines Day, to the light of my dreary old life. I love you, Mark"

I then scarcely had time to get dressed before Rebecca knocked on my door, coming to see if I wanted to go for lunch before our meetings. My stomach growled in assent and I followed her out. After a pleasant lunch during which time I briefed that she would be working with Natasha, and brought her up to speed on the state of the Bolivian case that she would be working on, we got a town car to the offices that should have been my day to day place of employment. Rebecca seemed slightly disappointed that she wouldn't be working on the more high profile Thompson vs Klein with Conrad Fisher, one of the senior partners of the firm and I. Her youthful ambition amused me and concerned me in equal measures.

When we arrived, there was a corporate welcome for us, during which I did catch sight of Natasha who, after a slight smile, kept her eyes demurely to the ground. Of this fact I was glad as I imagined most, if not all, the people in the room with us were wholly aware of the circumstances surrounding my failure to take up my post at the firm. Hank Abbott shook my hand and greeted me in the same booming voice he always used,

"Mark, you bastard, you're two months late for work!"

There was an awkward moment where nobody seemed to know where to look, before he burst out laughing and everyone else joined in, relieved. Carol, a woman I recognised from previous visits, leaned over and whispered to me,

"He wasn't quite so cheerful about it a couple of months ago,"

After the introductions and coffees I went to Conrad's office and we got started on some work. I found him to be quite easy to work with and was surprised to look up and see it was six o clock. All of a sudden jet lag overtook me for a moment and I had to stifle a yawn. Conrad, seeing my discomfort suggested we call an end to a day and so I left to go and met Natasha.

I ordered a bottle of wine and stared in awe at the spectacular views in front of me – the whole of New York spread out before me sixty-seven floors below. Natasha entered and although it had only been a few months since I had seen her last, discounting the brief glance in the office earlier, she looked surprisingly different – her hair was longer, her face rounder, softer.

I stood to greet her and kissed her warmly on the cheek,

"Natasha, you're looking very well,"

"Nonsense Mark," she scoffed, "I've put on at least half a stone at least, with all the American portions. And you are looking wonderful as usual. And don't start apologising again. I've had two months solid of your apologising and I think that is quite enough of that, even for you,"

I tried to protest but she held up her hand,

"I've told you, I understand. You had to be with Bridget. It was always Bridget wasn't it. I knew it from the moment we saw her with your friend at the hotel," she finished with a tone of regret in her voice,

"He's no friend of mine," I muttered under my breath, although realised as I was saying it that that was hardly the point. Our eyes met for a moment and I filled the awkward silence by offering her a glass of wine. As she went to take a drink, I noticed something sparkle on her finger,

"Natasha, is there something you aren't telling me?" I asked curiously, looking pointedly at her finger,

"That's why I keep telling you it's fine," she grinned, waving the ring towards me,

"But who? When? It seems very sudden!" I thought of the engagement ring at home in the drawer of my bureau

"Not that sudden. It's Alan, from the office. He took me for a drink to calm my nerves after the shock you inflicted on me, and that was that,"

I cast my mind back and remembered the man that met us from the plane when Natasha and I came to New York together. He had helped me book my return ticket and looked after Natasha who was, although not distraught, certainly rather put out by my sudden disappearance, and then made sure my bag was returned to me. He would do well for her. I felt a weight of responsibility lift from me and congratulated her. Another beat of silence passed, as we both drank from our glasses before we returned to the topic of conversation we both enjoyed together – work. I asked her how she got on today and she told me she had made a lot of progress,

"I'd watch out for that Rebecca though, Mark. Remember what I told you about women and the law – she's the third kind. Definitely the third kind,"

I thought back:

_Natasha had been lying on my bed, wearing one of my shirts - which I thought gave her the unfortunate look of a young boy – and we had been talking about work (as usual) _

"_With men it's always one thing with law – trying to prove you're the cleverest,"_

"_I find that rather offensive," I countered, "And it's not that way with women?"_

"_Oh no, women are much more complicated than that. They either go into law," she counted on her fingers, "One - because they are too ugly to enter Miss Universe but they want world peace nonetheless. Two - the money. Three – sex. And lastly, to prove they are better than men,"_

"_And which one are you?"_

"_I think you know the answer to that Mark, all of the above – except for the ugly bit!"_

"I hardly think that is of any interest to me, although I have had my suspicions about her and Giles,"

Natasha snorted into her wine, "Giles!? I don't think so! I'd say she had her eyes on someone a lot more interesting than that,"

"Who?" I asked, my interest aroused. She rolled her eyes but before she was able to speak, her phone rang. She looked at me apologetically,

"It's Alan, I'm meeting him for dinner,"

I made my excuses as she answered it and paid the bill before heading back to the hotel.

As I walked back along the busy streets, I passed Bloomingdales, the department store. Thinking that Bridget would love one of their trademark bags that she had pointed out when we were watching 'Sex and the City', I ducked inside. I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes before I found myself in the ladieswear department. Determined to shed my 'can't ever do anything spontaneous' image, I headed to the lingerie department. Almost immediately I began to wonder if it as a bad idea, after all, I always think men looking round at the ladies underwear either look like they are working up the courage to buy something for themselves, or are hoping to see women running about in a state of undress in the manner of a seventies comedy. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure which was preferable. Buoyed by the wine I had just drink, I soon found a red silk nightie and went to the till, blushing furiously.

The next day brought a whirlwind of meetings. I spent a couple of hours with Alan, Natasha's future husband. He had taken my vacant position as Senior partner and I found myself rather happy for him. As we broke for coffee in the afternoon, Rebecca sidled up to me,

"Did you fancy going out and getting a bit of supper tonight? I don't think I can bear another second with that idiot Hank. Plus no girl should be on her own on Valentines Day," she finished, pouting slightly.

I must admit to feeling slightly conflicted – whilst it was obviously just a work engagement, I felt that Bridget may feel slightly betrayed by my going out for dinner with another woman on Valentines Day, especially as I knew she would be at home on her own. I had taken the opportunity in the hotel last night, to contact a gourmet caterer and have them deliver a meal and bottle of wine to Bridget for her Valentines meal, knowing that otherwise she would only end up getting a takeaway. Although I accepted Rebecca's offer, I was slightly relieved that the work overran by several hours and we were forced to have takeaway in the office. I wouldn't have wanted to lie to Bridget about my whereabouts, had I gone out with Rebecca but I conceded that I would be more than a little aggrieved were the situation reversed and was keen to avoid any arguments, as well as being keen to avoid upsetting Bridget. I almost laughed into my noodles as I considered the irony that it was I that had been left eating the takeaway whilst Bridget enjoyed filet mignon.

I got back to the hotel just after ten – I had had a text from Bridget when I had woken up that morning saying 'Happy Valentines Day', and another from her around lunch time thanking me for the flowers and the food but due to the time difference, I knew it would be an exercise in futility to phone her now as she would be asleep. I sat on the edge of my bed and reached for the parcel that Bridget had sent to the hotel. I had been true to her request and not opened it until now. I peeled back the paper and tipped the contents into my hand, although to be honest, the fact that Bridget had thought to find out the address of the hotel was enough without anything else. It was a small chocolate heart. The gift was typical of Bridget – thoughtful and romantic without being flashy or soppy. I was glad she had not spent too much money on a gift as I could better afford to buy anything that I wanted. I carefully put it back into the envelope and placed it into my suitcase, thinking that I would have to be pretty damn hungry before I would ever eat that chocolate. After a fitful night sleep during which my body seemed to struggle to understand whether it was night or day I was immensely glad to go home, even if it did mean having to fly again.


End file.
